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1795. 



FROM THE ORIGINAL PAINTING BY PETER VANDYKE, NOW IN THE NATION/i 
PORTRAIT GALLERY, LONDON. 



SELECT POEMS 

OF 

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 



ARRANGED IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER 
WITH INTRODUCTION AND NOTES 



BY 



ANDREW J. GEORGE, A. M. 

DEPARTMENT OF ENGLISH LITERATURE, NEWTON HIGH SCHOOL 



-i * ' The songs he gave us, what were they 

3 '' But preludes to some loftier rhyme 

That would not leave the sphered chime, 
The concords of eternal day, 

And speak itself in words of Time. ' ' 

Aubrey de Vere. 



BOSTON, U.S.A. 

D. C. HEATH & COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 





THF ^ -' - .~~™| 

c ! 




NOV. 10 1902 ! 




CLASS 0^ XXc. K'o. 


1 




COPY K. 




Copyright, 1902, 


B\ 


^ D. C. Heath & Co. 



PRINTED IN 

UNITED STATES 

OF AMERICA 



To 
THE REV. H. D. RAWNSLEY 

VICAR OF CROSTHWAITE AND HON. CANON OF 

CARLISLE 

WHO WITH THE IMAGINATION OF THE POET 

AND THE FIDELITY OF THE CHRONICLER 

HAS REVEALED IN NOBLE VERSE AND PROSE 

THE LIFE OF THE PAST 

WITH POETS AND DALESMEN 

AT THE ENGLISH LAKES 

THIS VOLUME IS DEDICATED 

IN MEMORY OF WALKS AND TALKS 

IN 

THE OLD WORLD AND THE NEW 



ptdact 



In 1892 Mr. Aubrey de Vere graciously allowed me 
to dedicate Wordsworth's Prefaces on Poetry to him 
as, ** The friend of Wordsworth who had nobly illus- 
trated in prose and verse the principles which these Pre- 
faces Contain." He then wrote j " It is indeed as the 
friend of Wordsworth and as one who from youth to age 
has endeavored to make known to others the transcenden- 
tal value of his poetry that I should wish to be remem- 
bered if remembered at all." In the same letter, after 
alluding to my edition of Select Poems of Wordsworth, 
he said ; "I only wish that what you have done for 
Wordsworth you would next do for his brother Poet, 
Coleridge. Wordsworth expressed to me more than once 
his conviction that if Coleridge had kept to poetry after 
his twenty sixth year (when he deserted it) in place of 
taking to Metaphysics he would have been the chief poet 
of Modern Times." 

In the years that have elapsed since this letter was 
written I have used the poems of Coleridge side by side 
with those of Wordsworth, with the purpose of ascer- 
taining those best adapted to reveal not only the growth 
of his mind and art but also the experiences of his 
eventful life which give variety and charm to his work. 



vi ipreface 

The present volume is the result of these observations, 
and it is believed that it will furnish the general student 
with sufficient material to enable him to understand and 
appreciate this great Poet and the time in which he lived. 
The special student will of course be satisfied with no- 
thing less than the whole of the poet' s work. 

As respects a man whom we never saw we are fortu- 
nate if we have as means of knowing him, — works re- 
vealing the various moods of his mind and emotions of his 
heart, portraits painted by great artists in a lucky hour 
of his youth and age, and friends who had insight to 
know and were both able and willing to tell us the truth 
in regard to his character. In the study of Coleridge we 
have all of these means awaiting us, and there is no 
excuse for our taking half views of him and his work. 
Mr. Richard Gamett has said that in the study of Cole- 
ridge "The pebble of poetry is often the pearl of biogra- 
phy. His wood, hay, and stubble must consequently 
continue along with his fine gold ; and by a curious 
paralogism, the only editions esteemed standard will be 
those where the abstract standard of excellence is disre- 
garded." In this edition both pebbles and pearls will be 
found as its purpose is to reveal those influences in the 
life of the man which gave the distinctive note to his 
poetry. "The web of our life is a mingled yarn, good 
and ill together ; our virtues would be proud if our faults 
whipped them not ; and our crimes would despair if they 
were not cherished by our virtues." 

Inasmuch as the notes give the biographical and crit- 



l^tttut 



Vll 



ical material sufficient to enable one to estimate the place 
in the history of literature which by common consent 
Coleridge occupies, I have attempted in the Introduction 
to reveal the larger influences of English life during the 
great revival in English poetry. Romantic and Revolu- 
tionary, of which Coleridge was so important a force. 

Although most of the material of the notes has been 
gathered in my study and teaching of the poet, I am 
indebted for many important details to the valuable 
works of Mr. J. Dykes Campbell : The Poetical Works 
of Samuel Taylor Coleridge 1893, and Samuel Taylor 
Coleridge A Narrative of the Events of his Life 1894. 

My thanks are due to The Rev. Canon Rawnsley for 
permission to associate his name with this volume. 

The dates prefixed to the poems give the time of 
writing and of first publication respectively, so far as 
they can be ascertained. In some instances when it 
has been impossible to fix the exact date of composition 
I have conjectured the date from certain events in the 
poet's life, and I shall be glad if any readers of the vol- 
ume can furnish corrections or elucidations. 

A J. George. 

Brookline, Massachusetts, 
JunCf 1902. 



Contentji 



PAGE 

Preface v 

Introduction xv 

Appreciations xliii 

1786 Genevieve i 

1788 Sonnet to the Autumnal Moon ... i 

1789 To the Muse 2 

Destruction of the Bastile .... 3 

Life 5 

1790 Monody on the Death of Chatterton . 6 
On receiving an account that his only sis- 
ter's death w^as inevitable . . . . 10 

1 79 1 The Raven 11 

Sonnet on quitting School for College . 1 3 

Absence 14 

Happiness 15 

1792 A Wish, written in Jesus Wood. (Feb- 

ruary 10, 1792.) 19 

To a young lady, vi^ith a Poem on the 

French Revolution 20 

1793 Songs of the Pixies 22 

Sonnet to the River Otter . . . . 27 

Lines to a Beautiful Spring in a Village . 28 

Lines on an Autumnal Evening . . . 30 

1794 Lewti, or the Circassian Love-Chaunt . 35 



X Contentfii 

The Faded Flower 38 

Domestic Peace. ( From the Fall of Robes- 
pierre. Act I.) . . .• . . . 39 
On a Discovery made too Late . . . 39 

Lafayette 40 

To a Friend (Charles Lamb), together 

with an unfinished poem . . . . 41 
Monody on the death of Chatterton. 
1794-1829. (Latest version) . . 43 

1795 To The Nightingale 50 

Composed while climbing the left Ascent 

of Brockley Coomb. (Somersetshire, 

May 1795.) 51 

The ^olian Harp 52 

Reflections on having left a Place of Re- 
tirement 55 

1796 On observing a blossom on the First of 

February 1796 58 

To 59 

To a Primrose, the First seen in the Sea- 
son 60 

Sonnet to a Friend who asked how I 
felt when the Nurse first presented my 

Infant to me 61 

Lines composed in a Concert-room . . 62 

Ode on the Departing Year . . . . 63 

1797 To the Rev. George Coleridge ... 71 

Lines to W. Linley, Esq 75 

The Three Graves 76 

This Lime-Tree Bower my Prison . . 99 
Fire, Famine and Slaughter . . . .103 



Contents? xi 

797-^ Kubla Khan 106 

^ The Rime of the Ancient Mariner .109 
V Christabel 139 

1 798 Encinctured with a twine of Leaves (From ' 

The Wanderings of Cain) . . .166 

France: An Ode 167 

Frost at Midnight 172 

Fears in SoHtude 175 

The Nightingale. A Conversation Poem. 185 

1799 Westphalian Song 190 

The Visit of the Gods 191 

Names 192 

Water Ballad 193 

Lines written in the Album at Elbinge- 

rode, in the Hartz Forest . . . '194 
Something Childish, but very Natural . 196 

The Day-Dream 197 

N/Love 198 

The Ballad of the Dark Ladie . . .202 
A Christmas Carol 205 

1 800 Thekla's Song. (From the Piccolomini 

Act II, Scene 6.) 208 

The Keepsake 208 

A Stranger Minstrel 210 

The Snow-Drop 213 

1 801 \ Ode to Tranquillity 215 

1802 \J Dejection: An Ode 217 

The Picture, or the Lover's Resolution . 224 
Hymn before Sun-rise in the Vale of Cha- 

mouni 232 

An Ode to the Ram 236 



xii Contmt0 

Inscription for a Fountain on a Heath . 239 

Answer to a Child's Question . . . 240 

1803 The Pains of Sleep 241 

1804 Phantom 243 

1805 A Sunset 243 

What is Life ? 244 

Constancy to an Ideal Object . . • 244 
The Blossoming of the Solitary Date- 
Tree 246 

1806 A Thought suggested by a View of Sad- 

dleback in Cumberland . . . .249 
Ad Vilmum Axiologum. (William 
Wordsworth.) 250 

1807 To a Gentleman. (William Words- 

worth.) 251 

A Day-Dream 256 

Recollections of Love 258 

1809 A Tombless Epitaph 260 

1 8 1 4 Portrait of Sir George Beaumont. (From 

Remorse. Act II, Scene 2) . . .261 

18 1 5 Glycine's Song, (from Zapolya. Act II, 

Scene 2) 263 

Hunting Song, (from Zapolya. Act IV, 

Scene 2) 263 

Time, Real and Imaginary . . . .264 

1 817 The Knight's Tomb 265 

1 819 Fancy in Nubibus 265 

1820 To Nature 266 

1823 Youth and Age 267 

1824 Love's First Hope 269 

1825 Alice du Clos 269 



Contents xiii 

1826 Duty surviving Self-Love .... 277 

1827 Work without Hope 278 

1828 * And oft I saw him stray ' .... 279 
The Garden of Boccaccio . . . .280 

1829 Love, Hope, and Patience in Education . 284 
Lines Written in Commonplace book of 

Miss Barbour 286 

1830 Phantom or Fact 286 

1833 Love's Apparition and Evanishment . 288 

Epitaph 289 

Chronological 290 

Notes 291 

Index to First Lines 407 



Slntfotjuction 

A STUDY of the two great periods in the history of 
English literature, the Elizabethan, or the period of 
Italian influence, and the Modern, or that of the Eng- 
lish Renascence, will reveal the significant truth that 
the sources of creative power in each lay deep down 
in the national hfe. When the people have been 
stirred with emotion at the consciousness of unity in a 
great cause, patriotism has at once quickened the im- 
agination, a Renascence of wonder and delight springs 
up, and a new faith is born with a new art, as in 
the case of Spenser, Shakespeare, and Milton on the 
one hand, and Burns, Coleridge, and Wordsworth on 
the other. 

When the springs of these mighty impulses became 
tainted or choked up as at the Restoration art and faith 
both languished ; but when after the lapse of nearly a 
century England arose to the consciousness of her history 
and her destiny in the great political revival under Pitt, 
they burst forth anew, and the art and faith of the Eliza- 
bethan under the Romantic impulse on the one hand 
and the Revolutionary outburst on the other were no 
longer satisfied with their insular position, and the era 
of expansion began. Britain suddenly rose from an 
era of the commonplace in men and affairs and tow- 
ered above nations who were satisfied with merely a 



xvi idntrotiuction 

continental influence. In this movement Pitt gained 
a position unique among English Statesmen. 

In studying the predecessors of Coleridge it is neces- 
sary to review the beginning of these great impulses as 
they appear in the early and middle Eighteenth Cen- 
tury, and also follow them as they take up into them- 
selves other elements of the life of the time as that life 
became more complex and expansive. The new move- 
ment toward nature, and the democratic movement 
belong to these two great impulses — Romantic and 
Revolutionary — which met in Wordsworth and Cole- 
ridge on the Quantock hills. 

It was in the almost unconscious protest against the 
tendency of the Augustans to exclude the emotions from 
their subjects and freedom of movement from their 
verse that the Romantic movement had its rise. In 
contrast to the plastic power of the Classic imagination 
in molding subjects into graceful but colorless form, 
the Romantic was picturesque, figuradve, scattering 
itself over its subject in a splendor of color and im- 
agery. One is content with the world as it is here 
and now: the other is filled with an inexhaustible dis- 
content, homesickness, and endless regret. Heine says 
that the Romantic movement in Germany was *' the 
reawakening of the Poetry of Middle Age, as it had 
shown itself in its songs, images, and Architecture, in 
art and in life. But the poetry had risen from Chris- 
tianity; it was a passion-flower which had sprung from 
the blood of Christ." This is equally true of the 
movement in England. 

Predecessors of Coleridge struggled to bring back 



^Introduction xvii 

into English life and literature something of the mirth and 
merrymaking, the enchantment of forest and stream, 
the spiritual glow and passion of love in hearts simple 
and pure, in forms of verse, where more is meant 
than meets the ear. Poetry, painting, music were 
to be reunited in the service of a simple natural Hfe, 
breathing still the noble idealism, sense and soul of 
the middle ages which had appeared in Spenser and 
Milton. As no one of these revivalists was great 
enough to combine all of these characteristics they may 
be conveniently arranged in groups, as follows: (i) 
Those who, influenced by Spenser and Milton, ex- 
celled in reproducing the aspects of natural scenery and 
the moods of man; as Thomson, Collins, and Gray: 
( 2 ) Those who were interested in the Hfe and thought 
revealed in the ballads and the stories of a Romantic 
past, as James McPherson, Thomas Percy, and Thomas 
Chatterton. 

In the closing years of the seventeenth century Ad- 
dison had voiced the prevalent feeling of the Augustans 
as follows: 

" Old Spenser next, warm'd with poetic rage, 
In ancient tales amused a barbarous age ; 
But now the mystic tale, that pleas' d of yore, 
Can charm an understanding age no more." 

Before the middle of the eighteenth century there 
were those who became sated with the shrill wit of an 
understanding age, and sought again the mystic tale of 
Spenser. Chief among those who led the return 
from captivity was James Thomson. In his exquisite 



xviii 3(|ntroDuction 

Seasons he did splendid service in revealing the simplicity 
and truth of rural life and feeling. 

" At first a dusky wreath they seem to rise, 
Scarce staining ether ; but by fast degrees, 
In heaps on heaps, the doubling vapour sails 
Along the loaded sky, and mingling deep. 
Sits on the horizon round a settled gloom : 
Not such as wintry storms on mortals shed, 
Oppressing life ; but lovely, gentle, kind, 
And full of every hope and every joy. 
The wish of Nature. Gradual sinks the breeze 
Into a perfect calm ; that not a breath 
Is heard to quiver through the closing woods, 
Or rustling turn the many twinkling leaves 
Of aspen tall. The uncurling floods, diffused 
In glassy breath, seem through delusive lapse 
Forgetful of their course. 'T is silence all, 
And pleasing expectation. Herds and flocks 
Drop the dry sprig, and, mute-imploring, eye 
The fallen verdure. Hushed in short suspense, 
The plumy people streak their wings with oil, 
To throw the lucid moisture trickling off j 
And wait the approaching sign to strike, at once, 
Into the general choir." l 

He was not satisfied, hov^'ever, until he had added to 
all this something of the romantic glow and splendor 
which exists for the inmost eye alone and constitutes 
the bliss of solitude. This he did in The Castle of 
Indolence. In luxury of bewitching sights and sounds 
it is unsurpassed even by Spenser himself — 

*' Fancy's pleasing son, 
Who, like a copious river, poured his song 
O'er all the mazes of enchanted ground." 

1 The Seasons. 



3IntroDuccton xix 

Loveliness with which to satiate one's senses, the 
ecstasy of romantic atmosphere, the triumph of imagi- 
nation associative, are seen in the following painting 
worthy of Claude : 

*' Was nought around but images of rest : 
Sleep-soothing groves, and quiet lawns between ; 
And flowery beds that slumbrous influence kest, 
From poppies breathed, and beds of pleasant green, 
Where never yet was creeping creature seen. 
Meantime, unnumbered glittering streamlets played. 
And hurled everywhere their waters sheen ; 
That, as they bickered through the sunny glade, 
Though restless still themselves, a lulling murmur made." l 

The revival of interest in the earlier mind and art 
of Milton which manifested itself at this time was 
revealed in its finest spirit in Collins and Gray. In 
their work imagination returns to the habit of spiritual 
and natural contemplation as opposed to the artificial 
moralizing of the Augustans, and its cry is ** Hence, 
vain deluding Joys !" as it welcomes the ** pensive 
Nun devout and pure " to the studious cloisters pale, 
while sweet music breathes above, about, or under- 
neath. 

In Collins' Ode to Evening these effects are revealed 
with grace, vigor, and happy harmony. Mr. Swin- 
burne says Corot on canvas might have signed this 
ode. 

** Now air is hushed, save where the weak-eyed bat 
With short, shrill shriek, flits by on leathern wingj 
Or where the beetle winds 
His small but sullen horn, 

1 Castle of Indolence. 



XX 3fIntroliuction 

As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path, 
Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum : 

Now teach me, maid composed, 

To breathe some softened strain. 

Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale, 
May, not unseemly, with its stillness suit. 

As, musing slow, I hail 

Thy genial loved return ! ' ' 

His Ode on the Death of Thomson strikes the Ele- 
giac note of Milton's Lycidas ; while that On the Popu- 
lar Superstitions of the Highlands of Scotland may- 
be said to contain the whole Romantic School in 
its germ. The ninth stanza is typical of the entire 
poem. 

** Unbounded is thy rage ; with varied style 

Thy muse may, like those feathery tribes which spring 

From their rude rocks, extend her skirting wing 
Round the moist marge of each cold Hebrid isle, 

To that hoar pile which still its ruin shows : 
In whose small vaults a pigmy-folk is found. 

Whose bones the delver with his spade upthrows. 
And culls them, wondering, from the hallowed ground ! 

Or thither, where, beneath the showery west. 
The mighty kings of three fair realms are laid ; 

Once foes, perhaps, together now they rest, 
No slaves revere them, and no wars invade : 

Yet frequent now, at midnight's solemn hour. 
The rifted mounds their yawning cells unfold. 

And forth the monarchs stalk with sovereign power. 
In pageant robes, and wreathed with sheeny gold, 
And on their twilight tombs aerial council hold." 1 

It is in the work of Gray, the fastidious scholar and 

1 Ode on the Popular Superstitions of the Highlands of Scotland. 



iflntrotjuction xxi 

recluse, that we see the first culmination of the Roman- 
tic movement. There were three stages in the devel- 
opment of his taste. The first was that of the Augus- 
tans, as is seen by such conventional painting and cold 
morahty the Ode on the Spring and To Adversity. 

** Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch 

A broader browner shade, 
Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech 

O'er-canopies the glade, 
Beside some water's rushy brink 
With me the Muse shall sit, and think 

( At ease reclined in rustic state ) 
How vain the ardour of the crowd 
How low, how little are the proud, 

How indigent the great ! " 1 

The second stage is that of the Elegy y which is in the 
dreamy, pensive mood of Milton, and is permeated 
with the atmosphere of rural England. 

" Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, 
And all the air a solemn stillness holds. 
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, 
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds : 

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower, 
The moping owl does to the moon complain 

Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, 
Molest her ancient solitary reign." 

The third stage is that of The Bard, The Descent of 
Odin, and the Journal in the Lakes, in which there 
is a glow of enthusiasm in the passion of man and the 
beauty of nature. 

1 Ode on the Spring. 



xxii ^Introduction 

*< On a rock whose haughty brow, 

Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood, 
Robed in the sable garb of woe, 

With haggard eyes the Poet stood : 
(Loose his beard, and hoary hair 
Streamed, like a meteor, to the troubled air) 
And with a master's hand, and Prophet's fire 
Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre. 
Hark, how each giant oak, and desert cave, 
Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath! " ^ 



' In the caverns of the West, 
By Odin's fierce embrace comprest ; 
A wond'rous Boy shall Rinda bear, 
Who ne'er shall comb his raven hair. 
Nor wash his visage in the stream. 
Nor see the sun's departing beam ; 
Till he on Hoder's corse shall smile 
Flaming on the funeral pile. 
Now my weary lips I close : 
Leave me, leave me to repose." ^ 



** Came to the foot of Helvellyn along which runs an 
excellent road, looking down from a little height on 
Lee's-water (called also Thirlmeer, or Wiborn- water), 
and soon descending on its margin. The lake from its 
depth looks black (though really as clear as glass), and 
from the gloom of the vast crags, that scowl over it: 
it is narrow and about three miles long, resembling a 
river in its course ; little shining torrents hurry down 
the rocks to join it, with not a bush to overshadow 
them, or cover their march: all is rock and loose stones 
up to the very brow, which Hes so near your way, 

1 The Bard. 2 The Descent of Odin. 



3|ntroUuctton xxiii 

that not above half the height of Helvellyn can be 
seen." ^ 

The subtle analogy between human emotions and 
the phenomena of external nature ; the identification of 
our own moods with Nature and the spiritual elation 
resulting, is to be seen at its height in Wordsworth 
and Coleridge, but as early as 1739 Gray felt the in- 
fluence. When visiting the Grande Chartreuse, he 
wrote to West : ** I do not remember to have gone 
ten paces without an exclamation that there was no 
restraining ; not a precipice, not a torrent, not a cliff, 
but is pregnant with religion and poetry. There are 
certain scenes that would awe an atheist into beHef 
without the help of other argument." 

The years 1 760-1 770 are memorable ones in the 
history of English Romanticism, as at this time were 
given to the world Macpherson' s Ossian, Percy's 
Reliques of Ancient English Poetry and the Row- 
ley Poems of Chatterton. Centuries ago among the 
mountains, lakes, and glens of the western Highlands 
of Scotland there existed a race of heroes known as 
the Fienne which Mr. Skene affirms preceded the 
Scots both in Erin and Alban. They came from Loch- 
Ian (Scandinavia) and settled in Ireland and the north 
of Scotland ; hence the legends of this race are the 
common property of both countries. Each has its own 
body of popular songs and epics of these Fenian heroes, 
preserved by oral tradition. Professor Shairp says that 
he has known of those among the Gael of the Scottish 
Highlands who could sing the Fenian poems for two 
1 Journal in the Lakes. 



^xiv 3|ntroiJuction 

or three evenings continuously. The poetry of this 
period is known as Ossianic because Oisin was the 
proto bard, the first and greatest of the bards, and was 
the son of Fionn or Finn the great king. Having sur- 
vived his race and kindred, alone and blind he stands 
at the door of his empty hall solacing himself with 
memories of the past. His chief delight is to listen to 
the song of Malvina, the betrothed of his son Oscar, 
who has fallen in battle. At times he himself breaks 
forth in a passionate wail of anguish, or a joyful hymn 
of victory, as he remembers the mighty deeds in which 
he has been an actor. He is a Gaelic Homer gather- 
ing the harvest of a splendid era of acdon. 

In 1758 a young Highlander of Badenoch published 
a poem. The Highlander ^ which revealed an aspirant 
for literary honor not without promise. When it became 
known that he had in his possession some of the old 
poems of the Ossianic period he was urged to translate 
them. At first he hesitated, but later produced a trans- 
lation of Fingal and Temora the ancient Epics. At 
once he was the observed of all observers and became 
in reputadon what John Stuart Blackie calls the Pisis- 
tratus or the Aristarchus of a Cekic Homer. His fame 
was not only nadonal but European. But at last doubts 
arose as to the existence of the originals, and the great 
Ossianic Controversy began. With it we have nothing 
to do now ; the student who is curious about it will 
find abundant material in Shairp's Aspects of Poetryy 
Blackie' s Language and Literature of the Scottish 
Highlands^ and The Publications of the Highlands So- 
ciety. In the earliest raptures of the Scottish Gael as 



31ntroJ5uction xxv 

he prepared for the combat or returned victorious over 
his enemy ; in the later and more subdued note of love 
despair of the race as it fades away before the inevi- 
table, we find a revelation of his varied interest and 
activity. In the following description of Cuchullin, 
the leader of the warriors of Ulster, we have the rapid- 
ity, the directness, the simplicity, and the nobility 
of Homer. I give Dr. Clerk's translation from Mac- 
pherson's prose : 

* ' In the chariot is seen the chief, 
True, brave son of the keen-cutting brand, 
Cuchullin, of blue dappled shields, 
Son of Semo, renowned in song. 
His cheek like the polished yew ; 
Clear, far-ranging his eye, 
Under arched, dark, and slender brow ; 
His yellow hair down-streaming from his head, 
Falls round the glorious face of man. 
As he draws his spear from his back." 

A single quotation from the prose of Macpherson' s 
Fingal will reveal his peculiar style, strong in exclama- 
tory qualities, abruptness, picturesqueness, and solem- 
nity, resembling that of the prophetic books of the Eng- 
lish Bible: **As the dark shades of autumn fly over 
the grass ; so glowing, dark, successive came the chiefs 
of Lochlin's echoing woods. Tall as the stag of Mor- 
ven moved stately before them the King. His shining 
shield is on his side, like a flame on the heath at night; 
when the world is silent and dark, and the traveler 
sees some ghost sporting in the beams. Dimly gleam 
the hills around, and show indistinctly their oaks. A 



xxvi 3|ntroUuction 

blast of the troubled ocean removed the settled mist. 
The sons of Erin appear, Uke a ridge of rock on the 
coast ; when mariners on shores unknown are trem- 
bling at the veering winds." ^ 

** The Celt's quick feeling for what is noble and dis- 
tinguished gave his poetry style ; his indomitable per- 
sonality gave it pride and passion ; his sensibihty and 
nervous exaltation gave it a better gift still, — the gift 
of rendering with wonderful felicity the magical charm 
of nature. Magic is just the word for it, — the magic of 
nature, her weird power and her fairy charm." ^ This 
magic was just what sick poetry and over-civilization 
needed to revive their drooping spirits. " Men had been 
talking under their breath, and in a mincing dialect, 
so long," says Leslie Stephen, **that they were easily 
gratified by vigorous and natural sentiment." The 
charm of these tales of a past age was immediate. 
They touched Gray so keenly that he was impatient for 
more ; Chatterton imitated their style and subjects ; 
Walpole was charmed no less than Gray ; while 
Byron, Coleridge, and Scott felt their power. They 
were translated into six languages, and began a tour of 
Europe. The Celtic revival in Ireland is largely due to 
them, and the work of one of her greatest poets, Aubrey 

1 For revelations of Gaelic Life and Poetry the following works, 
recommended to me by Prof. John Blackie, will be found valuable: 
Mackenzie's Beauties of Gaelic Poetry ,• Donald Gregory, History 
of the Highlands and Islands of Scotland; Norman MacLeod, 
Reminiscences of a Highland Parish ,• John Campbell, Popular 
Tales of the West Highlands; The Book of the Dean of Lismore } 
Mrs, Ogilvie, Highland Minstrelsy. 

2 Matthew Arnold, Celtic Literature. 



31ntrotJuction xxvii 

de Vere, especially his Legends of Ireland'' s Heroic 
Age, which deals with so many of the mighty deeds 
of Cuchullain, should interest the student of litera- 
ture. -"^ 

While the learned were measuring weapons in the 
Ossianic Controversy a young prodigy, Thomas Chat- 
terton, at Bristol was practicing a veritable hoax on a 
simple pewterer in his neighborhood. Having possessed 
himself of such necessary materials as ochre, pumice, 
bags of charcoal- dust, and parchments, he hid in the 
memorial room of the old church of Saint Mary de 
RedcHfFe, and began copying old devices of heraldry 
and antique drawings. Having deceived the old guilds- 
man, Bergum, with the newly discovered manuscript 
of his house, **The De Bergham Pedigree with crest 
and arms, two cat-a-mountains ermine," the creative 
impulse then took possession of him, and he added 
stories which purported to have been written by an old 
monk Rowley in the Middle Ages, and ventured to trap 
larger game. At the opening of the new bridge over the 
Avon at Bristol, he sent to the Journal a description of 
the Mayor passing over the old bridge in the reign of 
Henry II. In 1768 he prepared a prose sketch. The 
Ryse of Peyncteynee in Englande^ wroten by T. Rowleie 
I46g for Master Cany?ige. It is the story of Afflem, 
an Anglo Saxon worker in stained glass, who lived in 
the reign of Edmond, and was taken captive by the 
Danes. ** Inkarde, a soldyer of the Danes, was to slea 
hym ; onne the Nete before the Feeste of Deathe hee 
founde Afflem to bee hys Broder. AiFreghte chaynede 

1 Cf. Aubrey de Vere^ Atlantic Monthly, June, 1902. 



xxviii 3|ntroUuction 

uppe hys soule. Gastnesse dwelled yn his Braste. 
Oscarre, the greate Dane gave hest hee shulde bee 
forslagene with the commeynge Sunne ; no tears colde 
availe ; the morne ; cladde yn roabes of ghastness was 
come whan the Danique Kynge behested Oscarre to 
arraye hys Knyghtes eftsoones for Warre." This de- 
ceived Horace Walpole, to whom it was sent. After 
writing many poems in the pseudo-antique style, as the 
result of a boyish freak he went to London as a literary 
adventurer. He lived on a crust because he was too 
proud to ask help, and died of starvation in his eight- 
eenth year. After his death the Rowley poems were 
discovered, and they created almost as much interest as 
those of Macpherson. When they were published in 
1777, they aroused controversy as to their authenticity ; 
and finally it was acknowledged by all that they were 
exceedingly clever forgeries, which revealed a genius 
of marvelous and fascinating character. Chatterton's 
works carefully edited by the accomplished student of 
Chaucer, Prof Skeat, may now be read with all their 
peculiar freshness and antique picturesqueness. 

Song to AelUy Lord of Castle Bristol, is interesting. 

" O thou ! where'er — thy bones at rest, — 
Thv sprite to haunt delighteth best, — 
Whether upon the blood-embrued plain, 
Or where thou kenst from far 
The dismal cry of war ; 

Or seest some mountain made of corse of slain 
Or in black armour stalk around 
Embattled Bristowe, once thy ground, 
And glow ardurous on the Castle Stair ; 
Or fiery round the Minster glare, 
Let Bristowe still be made thy care." 



3fInti:oUuction xxix 

The Ballad of Charity, written when he was half 
starving, is perhaps the most complete and satisfactory 
of his works, of sustained power, tenderness, and 
beauty. 

" In Virgine the sultry Sun 'gan sheene 

And hot upon the meads did cast his ray : 
The apple ruddied from its paly green, 

And the soft pear did bend the leafy spray ; 

The pied chelandry 1 sang the livelong day : 
'Twas now the pride, the manhood of the year, 
And eke the ground was dight in its most deft aumere.l 

The sun was gleaming in the mid of day, 
Dead still the air and eke the welkin blue, 

When from the sea arist in drear array 
A heap of clouds of sable sullen hue, 

The which full fast unto the woodland drew, 

Hiding at once the Sunne's festive face ; 

And the black tempest swelled and gathered up apace. 

Beneath an holm, fast by a pathway side 

Which did unto Saint Godwin's convent lead, 

A hapless pilgrim moaning did abide, 
Poor in his view, ungentle in his weed. 
Long breast-full of the miseries of need. 

Where from the hailstorm could the beggar fly ? 

He had no housen there, nor any convent nigh." 

The minstrel song from Aella, while suggested by 
Ophelia's song in Hamlet, has charming touches pecu- 
liarly his own : — 

'* Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note, 
guick in dance as thought can be, 

1 Goldfinch. 2 Mantle. 



XXX 3Iwti^oDuction 

Deft his tabor, cudgel stout, 
O he lies by the willow-tree ! 
My love is dead, 
Gone to his death-bed. 

All under the willow-tree. 

Hark ! the raven flaps his wing 

In the briar's dell below 5 
Hark ! the death-owl loud doth sing 
To the nightmares as they go. 
My love is dead. 
Gone to his death-bed, 

AU under the willow- tree." 

The dramatic character of Chatterton's life, as well as 
the history and nature of his work, could not fail to in- 
fluence the Romantic movement. His successors from 
Blake to Rossetti have acknowledged their inheritance 
from this fragile, sensitive soul, and have sung his 
praises. Mr. Edmund Gosse says : ** It is not to be de- 
nied that, in relation of his years and equipments, to the 
vigour and bulk of his work produced, Chatterton is, 
let us say boldly, the most extraordinary phenomenon 
of infancy in the literature of the world. ' ' 

It is interesting to note that while the Romantic 
movement in England grew to its majestic Gothic pro- 
portions at the close of the century without any assist- 
ance from abroad, England through Shakespeare was 
making her contribution to a similar movement in Ger- 
many, as that country was throwing off the influence 
of French Classicism. This was returned with inter- 
est through Goethe in 1796, to stimulate Sir Walter 
Scott in his earhest work, the translation of Gotx von 
BerlichingeTiy which, with Percy's Reliquesy shares the 



jflntroUuction xxxi 

honor of creating his enthusiasm for the history of the 
legends and ballads of his own land. 

In considering the second of great influences, the 
Revolutionary, which rises between the Declaration of 
Independence in 1776 and the Declaration of the Rights 
of Man in 1789, we recognize how truly the eight- 
eenth century was an age of prose and reason, for we 
see that no one of the poets already mentioned has any 
share in it. In 1788 Pitt, speaking in the House of 
Commons, said : ** Kings and Princes derive their 
power from the people ; and to the people alone, 
through the organ of their representatives, does it ap- 
pertain to decide in cases for which the Constitution 
has made no specific or positive provision." 1 And he 
alluded to the right of princes, other than as derived 
from the people, as already sunk into contempt and 
almost oblivion. He was the first Englishman of his 
time, for he made England the first country in the 
world. The Great Commoner might look down with 
scorn on coronets and garters. '* A great and celebrated 
name ; a name that keeps the name of this country 
respectable in every other on the globe. It may truly 
be called, 

* clarum et venerabile nomen 
Gentibus, et multum nostrae quod proderat urbi.' " 2 

The one man of the period whose political prose has 
risen^ to the height of great literature is Edmund Burke. 

1 Memoirs of the Court and Cabinets of George the Third. 

2 Burke, Speech on American Taxation. 



xxxii 31ntroDuction 

His matchless speeches on the American War and his 
Reflections on the French Revolution place him among 
the most noble-hearted statesmen and greatest poHtical 
philosophers the world has ever known. His defense 
of the Americans and his condemnation of the French 
reveals that he saw clearly, as Mr. Morley says, why 
the draught which Rousseau and others brewed was 
harmless and wholesome for the Americans and mad- 
dening poison for the French. 

While revoludonary in the nature of his political phi- 
losophy, Burke was anti-revolutionary as regards prac- 
tical results, for abstract right is not always expedient. 
How imperial he was as an interpreter of English 
Liberty by his grasp of great prmciples, may be seen 
from the following. In his Speech on Co?iciliation with 
America he said : ** Magnanimity in politics is not sel- 
dom the truest wisdom ; and a great empire and little 
minds go ill together. If we are conscious of our situa- 
tion, and glow with zeal to fill our place as becomes 
our station and ourselves, we ought to anticipate all 
our public proceedings on America with the old warn- 
ing of the church, Sursum corda ! We ought to ele- 
vate our minds to the greatness of the trust to which 
the order of Providence has called us. By adverting to 
the dignity of this high calling, our ancestors have 
turned a savage wilderness into a glorious empire ; and 
have made the most extensive and the only honorable 
conquests, not by destroying but by promoting the 
wealth, the number, the happiness of the human race. 
Let us get an American revenue as we have got an 
American empire. English privileges have made it all 



3|ntroDuction xxxiii 

that it is ; English privileges alone will make it all it can 
be." 

Alluding to the apparent inconsistency in Burke's 
attitude toward the French and American Revolution 
respectively Mr. Benjamin Kidd says : ** We see 
Burke accordingly propounding the doctrine, already 
becoming strange to the theorists of the French Revo- 
lution, that even the whole people have no right to 
make a law prejudicial to the whole community. We 
are beginning to understand now something of the pro- 
found social instinct from which such illumination pro- 
ceeds, as well as to perceive the character of the prin- 
ciple Burke had in sight which reconciles the apparent 
contradiction." ^ In his Reflections on the Revolution 
in France he sought to lay bare the foundations on 
which political institutions must rest. ** On the scheme 
of this barbarous philosophy (of the Revolutionists), 
which is the offspring of cold hearts and muddy under- 
standings, and which is as void of solid wisdom as it is 
destitute of all taste and elegance, laws are to be sup- 
plied only by their own terrors and by the concern 
which each individual may find in them from any pri- 
vate speculations, or can spare to them from his own 
private interests. In the groves of their academy, at 
the end of every vista, you see nothing but gallows. No- 
thing is left which engages the affections in the part of 
the Commonwealth. On the principles of this mechanic 
philosophy, our institutions can never be embodied, if 
I may use the expression in persons ; so as to create in 
us love, veneration, admiration, or attachment. But 

1 Principles of Western Ci'vilvzation^ chap. I. 



xxxiv 3ntroDuction 

that sort of reason which banishes the affection is inca- 
pable of filling the place." 

The new feeling for man which had been the cause 
of these great revolutions now revealed itself in the 
political, moral, and religious life of the time. Adam 
Smith showed that a nation's wealth was in the nature 
and conditions of its toilers. ** In England the history of 
the great intellectual movement, in which the principles 
of modern democracy have been developed into some- 
thing Hke the form in which they have come down to 
the current generation, may be said to have begun with 
Adam Smith's Wealth of Nations.^ 

The Wesleys awakened interest in the poor, and 
gave the first impulse to popular education. Reforms in 
the prison system were brought about by the humani- 
tarian passion of Howard, and in every way Man, aside 
from considerations of wealth and position, was the 
centre of interest. In the new atmosphere of childlike 
wonder, practical wisdom, and philosophical thought, 
poetry of Man and Nature was developed. The poet 
who united the elements of the Romantic and Rev- 
olutionary impulses in the earlier stages is Wilham 
Blake. His poetry has the elements of Shakespeare, 
Spenser, and Milton, and anticipated Burns and Words- 
worth, in the love of nature, animal life, and children. 

In Songs of Innocencey simple, tender, joyous, 
laughing vale and echoing hill ; pleasant cot, and 
innocent bower ; oaken seat and neighbors all ; merry 
bird and sportive lamb ; are treated with a passion in- 
nocent and sublime. In Songs of Experience a child's 

1 Benjamin Kidd, Principles of Western Ci-vilizatioTt, chap, i . 



^IntroUuction xxxv 

heart beats in the man's, hating social injustice and all 
that renders the life of man slavish, mean, and vulgar. 
These are the prelusive notes to the symphony which 
is to be. To the Muse is a passionate appeal for a return 
of the old poetic povi^er : — 

'* How have you left the ancient love 
That bards of old enjoyed in you ! 
The languid strings do scarcely move, 

The sounds are forced, the notes are few." 

Blake's relation to the Revolutionary extremists is 
shown by such work as The Marriage of Heaven and 
Hell, and The French RevolutioUy only the first book 
of which was published. It was the spiritual idea rather 
than the historical facts of the Revolution which ap- 
pealed to him. In the httle room over Johnson's book 
shop in Saint Paul's Churchyard he met with Godwin, 
Priestly, Fuseli, and Paine, and was the only one of 
the party who dared to wear the bonnet rouge on the 
street ; but when the September Massacres occurred he 
threw it aside in disgust, and returned to the calmer 
atmosphere of love and song : — 

" Memory hither come, 

And tune your merry notes : 
And while upon the wind 

Your music floats, 
I '11 pore upon the stream — 

Where sighing lovers dream, 
And fish for fancies as they pass 

Within the watery glass. " 

The three poets who were related to the Revolu- 
tionary movement in much the same way as were 



xxxvi 31ntroDuction 

Thomson, Collins, and Gray to the Romantic, were 
Crabbe, Cowper, and Burns. The note of the new 
Democracy had been sounded by Goldsmith when he 
brooded over the charm of those lovely bowers of in- 
nocence and ease, which luxuries' contagion had sick- 
lied o'er. In The Village of Crabbe we have a 
picture, not of the Arcadian simplicity of Sweet Au- 
burn, but the sullen woe and bitter struggle in homes 
neither happy nor lovely, full of pain and misery. To 
sing of the idyllic pastoral life of Corydon and Phillis 
in the England of his time, he insisted, was only a 
delusion. Without flinching he disclosed the unplea- 
sant truth that among the abject poor, — 

" Where children dwell, who know no parents' care, 
Parents who know no children's love," — 

there can be only despair in living. And thus he united 
his forces with those of Wesley, Howard, and Wilber- 
force in teaching, — what we have yet to learn, — 

** How best to help the slender store, 
How mend the dwellings of the poor ; 
How gain in life, as life advances. 
Valour and Charity more and more." 

One may call Crabbe narrow if one pleases, but the 
power of moving readers by actual grief and suffering 
no one will deny him. The following is his creed, — 

* ' Cast by fortune on a frowning coast, 
Which neither groves nor happy valleys boast ; 
Where other cares than those the Muse relates. 
And other shepherds dwell with other mates j 
By such examples taught, I paint the cot, 
As truth will paint it and as bards will not : 



31ntroDuction xxxvii 

Nor you, ye poor, of lettered scorn complain, 
To you the smoothest song is smooth in vain ; 
O'er-come by labor, and bowed down by time, 
Feel you the barren flattery of a rhyme ? 
Can poets soothe you when you pine for bread, 
By winding myrtles round your ruin'd shed ? 
Can their light tales your weighty griefs o'erpower ? 
Or glad with airy mirth the toilsome hour ? ^ 

In 1785 Cower published The Task, and in 1786 
Burns gave to the world the first edition of his poems. 
Each poet wrought his task unconscious of the exist- 
ence of the other. The one in the dewy meadows of 
Buckinghamshire, and the other on the Ayrshire hills, 
saw Nature as she had not been seen since the time of 
Chaucer — in all her freshness and beauty ; and by 
so revealing it made poetry simple and natural, strong 
and healthful, with the health and the strength of 
youth. Cowper — 

*' Loved the rural walk through lanes 

Of grassy swarth, close cropped by nibbling sheep, 

And skirted thick with intertexture firm 

Of thorny boughs . . . 

O'er hills, through valleys, and by river's brink." 

He loved to tend the hare which he had saved from 
the hunter, — 

" One sheltered hare 
Has never heard the sanguinary yell 
Of cruel man exulting in her woes. 
Yes — thou mayst eat thy bread, and lick the hand 
That feeds thee ; thou mayst frolic on the floor 
At evening, and at night retire secure 
To thy straw couch, and slumber unalarmed.' ' 

1 The Village. 



xxxviii JlntroDuction 

Burns loved to wander — 

** Whyles owre the linn the burnie plays, 
As thro' the glen it wimpl't ; 
Whyles round a rocky scaur it strays, 
Whyles in a wiel it dimpl't ; 
Whyles glitter' d to the nightly rays, 
Wi' bickering, dancing dazzle ; 
Whyles cook'd underneath the braes. 
Below the spreading hazel, 
Unseen that night." 

In the winter night when the " doors and whinnock " 
rattle, he thought 

* ' On the ourie cattle 
Or silly sheep, wha bide the brattle 

O' winter war. 
And thro the drift, deep-laiving, sprattle 

Beneath the scaur. ' ' 

Again, by revealing that the hearts as tender and true beat 
under the hodden gray as under royal robes, these 
singers made poetry democratic. Cowper wrote : — 

"He is the freeman whom the truth makes free. 
He looks abroad into the varied field 
Of Nature, and though poor, perhaps, compared 
With those whose mansions glitter in his sight, 
Calls the delightful scenery all his own." 

Burns voiced the same sentiment : — 

" Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, 
* An honest man is the noblest work of God,' 
And certes, in fair virtue's heavenly road, 
The cottage leaves the palace far behind." 

And lastly, by teaching that God's love was revealed 
in nature, in animal life, and in man, that, — 



JlntroDuction xxxix 

** God made all the creatures, and gave them our love and our fear, 
To give sign we and they are his children, one family here," 

they made poetry reflect, as never before, the religion 
of Christ. The one indignantly protests : — 

" My ear is pain'd, 
My soul is sick with every day's report 
Of wrong and outrage with which the earth is filled ; 
Man devotes his brother and destroys. 
And what man seeing this, 
And having human feelings, does not blush 
And hang his head to think himself a man ? " 

The other, with his sweet sympathy for his erring 
brother, says : — 

" Who made the heart, 'tis He alone 

Decidedly can try us. 
He knows each cord its various tone. 

Each spring its various bias ; 
Then at the balance let 's be mute. 

We never can adjust it : 
What 's done we partly may compute, 
But know not what 's resisted.'''' 

I have said that these poets never met, and that each 
lived and loved and sang almost unconscious of the 
existence of the other. It seems that Cowper read 
Burns in July, 1797, for he then wrote: *' I think 
them on the whole a very extraordinary production. 
He is, I believe, the only poet these kingdoms have 
produced in the lower rank of life since Shakespeare who 
need not be indebted for any part of his praise to a 
charitable consideration of his origin, and the disadvan- 



xi 31ntroUuctton 

tages under which he has labored." How soon it was 
after the publication of Cowper's Task that it found 
Burns we cannot tell ; but in 1 795 he wrote his friend, 
Mrs. Dunlop, as follows : — 

** How do you Hke Cowper ? Is not the Task 
a glorious poem ? The religion of the Task, bating 
a few scraps of Calvinistic divinity, is the religion of 
God and nature ; the religion that exalts, that ennobles 
man." 

The passion of these poets for Nature and Man 
resulted in their becoming the chief precursors of the 
Revolutionary movement. Cowper was an Evangelical 
and Whig. He was gentle and unaggressive, yet he 
was by no means effeminate. He was averse to all 
sudden transitions in church and state. He writes : 
** God grant that we may have no revolution here, but 
unless we have reform we certainly shall. ' ' But he felt 
that ** Whenever the people chose to be masters they 
always are so, and none can hinder them." He hailed 
the hour when the Bastile should fall, with all the 
ardent desire of young Coleridge and Wordsworth. 

" Ye horrid towers, the abode of broken hearts. 
Ye dungeons, and ye cages of despair, 
That monarchs have supplied from age to age, 
With music such as suits their sovereign ears, 
The sighs and groans of miserable men ! 
There 's not an English heart that would not leap 
To hear that ye are fallen at last ; to know 
That even our enemies so oft employed 
In forging chains for us, themselves were free." 

His conception of the power and duty of the poet 



31ntroliuction xli 

— a power prophetic and duty heroic — is that of all 
the great movement poets in our literature : — 

' ' A terrible sagacity informs 
The poet's heart, he looks to distant storms, 
He hears the thunder ere the tempest lower, 
And, armed with strength surpassing human powers, 
Seizes events as yet unknown to man, 
And darts his soul into the dawning plan." 

This may well stand as the inscription over the portals 
of our nineteenth century poetry, for by it we have 
come to judge poetic greatness in Cowper's successors. 
Senator Hoar says of one of these, Wordsworth, ** No 
man of his time, statesman, philosopher, or poet, saw 
with such unerring insight into the great moral forces 
vv^hich determine currents of history." 

Burns was even more national in his passion than 
Cowper, yet when act'ng as exciseman his sympathies 
with struggling .^rance led him to send to her a car- 
ronade captured from a smuggler, with a letter of sym- 
pathy. For this he was reprimanded, and as he retained 
his office, he so feared that his friends might call him 
servile, that he wrote a letter to posterity in his own 
defense, saying, ** In the poet I have avowed manly 
and independent sentiments which I hope have been 
found in the man." Again at a dinner, when Pitt's 
health was proposed. Burns rose and begged leave to 
drink to a greater and better man, — General Wash- 
ington. In his patriotic chant, ** Does haughty Gaul 
invasion threat y^^ while declaring his loyalty to the 
party of order, he cannot forget that popular rights 
have claim to consideration, — 



xiii 31ntrot)uction 

" Who will not sing, ' God save the King,' 
Shall hang as high 's the steeple 5 
But while we sing, ' God save the King,' 
We '11 ne'er forget the people." 

Having considered some of the phases of the Roman- 
tic and Revolutionary movements respectively until the 
time of Wordsworth and Coleridge, it will be the pur- 
pose of this volume to reveal the union of the two in 
the chartreuse of the Quantock hills, dedicated to the 
genius of Solitude. But we may anticipate the work of 
these two teachers in a general way by applying to 
them what Matthew Arnold says of Joubert, — they 
** lived in the Philistines' day, in a place and time 
when almost every idea current in literature had the 
mark of Dagon upon it, and not the mark of the chil- 
dren of light. Nay, the children of light were as yet 
hardly so much as heard of : the Canaanite was then in 
the land. Still, there were even then a few, who, 
nourished on some secret tradition, or illumined, per- 
haps, by divine inspiration, kept aloof from the reign- 
ing superstitions, never bowed the knee to the gods of 
Canaan." ^ 

1 Essays in Criticism^ First Series. 



apprectationjs 



" Nothing can surpass the melodious richness of words which 
he heaps around his images, — images not glaring in themselves, 
but which are always affecting to the very verge of tears, because 
they have all been formed and nourished m the recesses of one of 
the most deeply musing spirits that ever breathed forth its inspira- 
tions in the majestic language of England." 

Prof. John Wilson, 

*< Endowed with so glorious a gift of song, and only not fully 
master of his poetic means, because of the very versatility of his 
artistic power and the very variety and catholicity of his youthful 
sympathies, it is unhappily but too certain that the world has lost 
much by that perversity of conspiring accidents which so unhappily 
silenced Coleridge's muse. And the loss is the more trying to pos- 
terity because he seems, to a not, I think, too curiously considering 
criticism, to have once actually struck that very chord which 
would have sounded most movingly beneath his touch." 

H. D. Traill. 

" Coleridge's poetical performance is like some exotic plant, just 
managing to blossom a little in the somewhat un-English air of his 
southwestern birthplace, but never quite well there. What shapes 
itself for criticism as the main phenomenon of Coleridge's poetic 
life is not, as with most true poets, the gradual development of a 
poetic gift, determined, enriched, retarded, by the actual circum- 
stances of the poet's life, but the sudden blossoming, through one 
short season, of such a gift already perfect in its kind, which 
thereafter deteriorates as suddenly, with something like premature 
old age." 

Waltkr Pater. 



xliv aippreciattons? 

*' One is a little apt to forget that Coleridge's metaphysical bent 
was no less innate than his poetical ; even at Christ's Hospital his 
spiritual potation was a half-and-half, in which the waters of a 
more or less authentic Castaly, and the philosophic draughts from 
such fountains as Jamblichus and Plotinus, were equally mingled. 
Whether or not a born * maker,' he was certainly a born theorist; 
and we believe not only that under all his most important artistic 
achievements there was a basis in intellectual theory, but that the 
theory, so far from being an alien and disturbing presence, did 
duty as the unifying principle which co-ordinated the whole." 

William Watson. 

*' What Coleridge did well was unique, but it was very little j 
and the volume we have from him influences us with all the sadness 
that a garden does in which two or three beautiful flowers rise and 
flower perfectly, but in which the rest are choked with weeds and 
run to seed. And to those who can compare the things of art with 
the things of soul and heart, the analogy has its own profound 
moral lesson. . . , Surely few men have ever loved mankind 
more than this large-hearted creature of the sunny mist. And 
inasmuch as he loved much, his faults are forgiven." 

Stopford a. Brooke. 

* ' The brilliant Coleridge of Nether Stowey, the buoyant young 
poet-philosopher who had not been to Germany, was a curious 
compound of un perfectly fused elements . . . but he was, above 
all, essentially and intrinsically a poet. The first genuine manifes- 
tations of his genius are the poems which he wrote before he was 
twenty-six. The germ of all Coleridge's utterances may be found 
— by a little ingenuity — in the Ancient Mariner.'''' 

Leslie Stephen. 

' ' A brief dawn of unsurpassed promise and achievement : * a 
trouble ' as of ' clouds and weeping rain ' ; then a long summer 
evening's work done by ' the setting sun's pathetic light' — such 
was Coleridge's day, the afterglow of which is stUl in the sky. I 
am sure that the temple, with all the rubble which blended with its 
marble, must have been a grander whole than any we are able to re- 



appreciatiottflf xlv 

construct for ourselves from the stones that lie about the field. The 
living Coleridge was ever his own apology — men and women 
who neither shared nor ignored his shortcomings, not only loved 
him, but honored and followed him. . . . Hatred as well as love 
may be blind, but friendship has eyes, and their testimony may 
wisely be used in correcting our own impressions." 

J. Dykes Campbell. 

'* Coleridge certainly was a main influence in showing the Eng- 
lish mind how it could emancipate itself from the vulgarizing 
tyranny of common sense, and teaches it to recognize in the 
imagination an important factor not only in the happiness but in 
the destiny of man. ... I cannot think it a personal peculiarity, 
but a matter of universal experience, that more bits of Coleridge 
have introduced themselves in my memory than of any other poet 
who delighted my youth, unless I should except the sonnets of 
Shakespeare. This argues perfectness of expression." 

J. R. Lowell. 

" In one of his pieces of blank verse Coleridge has described a 
vision of the graceful, white-armed Isabel, reflected in the placid 
waters of a lonely stream ; but let a blossom of willow-herb or a 
foxglove bell be tossed upon the pool, and the charm is broken : — 

* All that phantom-world so fair 
Vanishes, and a thousand circlets spread, 
And each mis-shape the other. ' 

The description might stand for that Coleridge's own poetry per- 
sonified, with its visionary beauty and its harmony of exquisite 
colors ; and what shall be said of the critic who flings his heavy 
stone of formula and scatters the loveliness ? " 

Edward Dowden. 



" Of Coleridge's best verses I venture to affirm that the world 
has nothing like them and can never have j that they are of the 
highest kind and their own. An age that should neglect or for- 
get Coleridge might neglect or forget any poet that ever lived. 
That may be said of him which can hardly be said of any but the 



xivi appreciationsf 

greatest among men, — that come what may to the world in course 
of time, it will never see his place filled." 

Algernon Charles Swinburne. 

" Coleridge was the spirit-quickener not only of this man or that, 
but of his whole age. The greatest men of his time were the 
most susceptible of his influence, and the first to feel it. His was 
the most germinative mind England has this century given birth to. 
Like a vast seed-field it lay, till the winds of inspiration wafted 
over it, blowing the seeds of his new thought over all the world." 

J. C. Shairp. 

** Coleridge's place in poetical literature was the incarnate transi- 
tion, so to speak, from the eighteenth to the nineteenth century, 
summing up in his own person in the restricted field of English poetry 
that description of spiritual evolution which Goethe has exhibited 
on a large scale in his symbolical representation of Faust's, and 
Helena's passage from classical into the mediaeval age." 

Richard Garnett. 

" His soul fared forth (as from the deep home- grove 
The father-songster plies the hour-long quest), 
To feed his soul-brood hungering in the nest ; 
But his warm Heart, the mother-bird, above 
Their callow fledgling progeny still hove 

With tented roof of wings and fostering breast 
Till the Soul fed the soul-brood. Richly blest 
From Heaven their growth, whose food was Human Love." 
Dante Gabriel Rossetti. 

<* O, for those Orphic songs unheard. 
That lived but in the Singer's thought ! 
Who sinned ? Whose hand frustration wrought ? 
Unworthy was the world or Bard 
To clasp those splendours, all but caught ? ' ' 

Aubrey de Vere. 



Select l^oemjS of ColeriDge 



GENEVIEVE 

1 786-1 794 

Maid of my Love, sweet Genevieve ! 

In Beauty's light you glide along : 

Your eye is like the star of eve, 

And sweet your voice as seraph's song. 

Yet not your heavenly beauty gives 

This heart with passion soft to glow : 

Within your soul a voice there lives ! 

It bids you hear the tale of woe. 

When sinking low the sufferer wan 

Beholds no hand outstretcht to save. 

Fair, as the bosom of the swan 

That rises graceful o'er the wave, 

I've seen your breast with pity heave. 

And therefore love I you, sweet Genevieve ! 

SONNET 

TO THE AUTUMNAL MOON 
1788-1796 

Mild Splendour of the various-vested Night ! 
Mother of wildly-working visions ! hail ! 
I watch thy gliding, while with watery light 



2 Select ipoem^ of Coleritige 

Thy weak eye glimmers through a fleecy veil ; 
And when thou lovest thy pale orb to shroud 
Behind the gathered blackness lost on high ; 
And when thou dartest from the wind-rent cloud 
Thy placid lightning o'er the awakened sky. 
Ah such is Hope ! as changeful and as fair ! 
Now dimly peering on the wistful sight ; 
Now hid behind the dragon-winged Despair ; 
But soon emerging in her radiant might 
She o'er the sorrow-clouded breast of Care 
Sails, like a meteor kindling in its flight. 

TO THE MUSE 

1789-1834 
Tho' no bold flights to thee belong ; 
And tho' thy lays with conscious fear, 
Shrink from Judgement's eye severe. 
Yet much I thank thee. Spirit of my song ! 
For, lovely Muse ! thy sweet employ 
Exalts my soul, refines my breast. 
Gives each pure pleasure keener zest. 
And softens sorrow into pensive Joy. 
From thee I learn'd the wish to bless. 
From thee to commune with my heart ; 
From thee, dear Muse ! the gayer part. 
To laugh with pity at the crowds that press 
Where Fashion flaunts her robes by Folly spun. 
Whose hues gay-varying wanton in the sun. 



SDesftmction of t^t Wn&tilt 3 

DESTRUCTION OF THE BASTILE 

1789 ?-i834 
I 

Heard'st thou yon universal cry, 

And dost thou linger still on Gallia's shore ? 
Go, Tyranny ! beneath some barbarous sky 
Thy terrors lost and ruin'd power deplore ! 
What tho' through many a groaning age 5 
Was felt thy keen suspicious rage. 
Yet Freedom roused by fierce Disdain 
Has wildly broke thy triple chain. 
And like the storm which earth's deep entrails 

hide. 
At length has burst its way and spread the ruins 

wide. ^^ 

IV 

In sighs their sickly breath was spent ; each 
gleam 
Of Hope had ceased the long long day to 
cheer ; 
Or if delusive, in some flitting dream. 

It gave them to their friends and children 
dear — 
Awaked by lordly Insult's sound 15 

To all the doubled horrors round, 



4 Select jpoem0 of Coleriuge 

Oft shrunk they from Oppression's band 
While anguish raised the desperate hand 
p'or silent death ; or lost the mind's controll, 
Thro' every burning vein would tides of Frenzy 
roll. 



But cease, ye pitying bosoms, cease to bleed ! 

Such scenes no more demand the tear humane ; 
I see, I see ! glad Liberty succeed 

With every patriot virtue in her train ! 

And mark yon peasant's raptured eyes ; 25 
Secure he views his harvests rise ; 
No fetter vile the mind shall know. 
And Eloquence shall fearless glow. 
Yes ! Liberty the soul of Life shall reign. 
Shall throb in every pulse, shall flow thro' every 

vein ! 30 

VI 

Shall France alone a Despot spurn ? 

Shall she alone, O Freedom, boast thy care ? 
Lo, round thy standard Belgia's heroes burn, 
Tho' Power's blood-stain'd streamers fire the 
air. 
And wider yet thy influence spread, 35 

Nor e'er recline thy weary head, 
Till every land from pole to pole 
Shall boast one independent soul ! 



life 5 

And still, as erst, let favourM Britain be 

First ever of the first and freest of the free ! 40 

LIFE 

1789-1834 
As late I journey'd o'er the extensive plain 

Where native Otter sports his scanty stream. 
Musing in torpid woe a sister's pain, 

The glorious prospect woke me from the 
dream. 

At every step it widen'd to my sight, 5 

Wood, Meadow, verdant Hill, and dreary 
Steep. 
Following in quick succession of delight. 

Till all — at once — did my eye ravish'd 
sweep ! 

May this (I cried) my course through Life 

portray ! 
New scenes of wisdom may each step display, 10 

And knowledge open as my days advance ! 
Till what time Death shall pour the undarken'd 
ray. 
My eye shall dart thro' infinite expanse. 
And thought suspended lie in rapture's blissful 
trance. 



6 g)elect l|Donn0 of Coletitige 

MONODY ON THE DEATH OF 
CHATTERTON 

1790-1794 
[First Version in Christ's Hospital Book — 1790] 

Cold penury repress' d his noble rage, 
And froze the genial current of his soul. 

Now prompts the Muse poetic lays, 
And high my bosom beats with love of 
Praise ! 
But, Chatterton ! methinks I hear thy name. 
For cold my Fancy grows, and dead each Hope 
of Fame. 

When Want and cold Neglect had chill'd 
thy soul, 5 

Athirst for Death I see thee drench the bowl ! 
Thy corpse of many a livid hue 
On the bare ground I view. 
Whilst various passions all my mind engage ; 
Now is my breast distended with a sigh, 10 
And now a flash of Rage 
Darts through the tear, that glistens in my eye. 

Is this the land of liberal Hearts ! 
Is this the land, where Genius ne'er in vain 
Pour'd forth her soul-enchanting strain ? *5 



^onoD^ on t^t mm\) of Cl^atterton 7 

Ah me ! yet Butler 'gainst the bigot foe 
Well-skill'd to aim keen Humour's dart, 
Yet Butler felt Want's poignant sting ; 
And Otway, Master of the Tragic art. 
Whom Pity's self had taught to sing, 20 
Sank beneath a load of Woe ; 
This ever can the generous Briton hear. 
And starts not in his eye th' indignant Tear ? 

Elate of Heart and confident of Fame, 
From vales where Avon sports, the Minstrel 

came, 25 

Gay as the Poet hastes along 
He meditates the future song. 
How ^lla battled with his country's foes, 
And whilst Fancy in the air 
Paints him many a vision fair 30 

His eyes dance rapture and his bosom glows. 
With generous joy he views th' ideal gold : 
He listens to many a Widow's prayers, 
And many an Orphan's thanks he hears ; 

He soothes to peace the care-worn breast, 35 
He bids the Debtor's eyes know rest. 
And Liberty and Bliss behold : 
And now he punishes the heart of steel. 
And her own iron rod he makes Oppression feel. 

Fated to heave sad Disappointment's sigh, 40 

To feel the Hope now rais'd, and now deprest. 



8 Select iponns? of ColrriDge 

To feel the burnings of an injur'd breast, 
From all thy Fate's deep sorrow keen 
In vain, O Youth, I turn th' affrighted eye ; 
For powerful Fancy evernigh 45 

The hateful picture forces on my sight. 
There, Death of every dear delight, 
Frowns Poverty of Giant mien ! 

In vain I seek the charms of youthful grace. 

Thy sunken eye, thy haggard cheeks it shews, 50 

The quick emotions struggling in the Face 
Faint index of thy mental Throes, 

When each strong Passion spurn'd controll. 

And not a Friend was nigh to calm thy stormy soul. 

Such was the sad and gloomy hour 55 

When anguish'd care of sullen brow 

Prepared the Poison's death-cold power. 

Already to thy lips was rais'd the bowl. 

When filial Pity stood thee by. 

Thy fixed eyes she bade thee roll 60 

On scenes that well might melt thy soul — 

Thy native cot she held to view, 

Thy native cot, where Peace ere long 

Had listen'd to thy evening song ; 

Thy sister's shrieks she bade thee hear, 65 

And mark thy mother's thrilling tear. 

She made thee feel her deep-drawn sigh. 

And all her silent agony of Woe. 

And from thy Fate shall such distress ensue ? 



^onoD^ on ttie SDeatlj of Ctjatterton 9 

Ah ! dash the poison'd chalice from thy hand ! 70 
And thou had'st dash'd it at her soft command; 
But that Despair and Indignation rose, 
And told again the story of thy Woes, 
Told the keen insult of th' unfeeling Heart, 
The dread dependence on the low-born mind, 75 
Told every Woe, for which thy breast might 

smart. 
Neglect and grinning scorn and Want com- 
bined— 
Recoiling back, thou sent'st the friend of 
Pain 
To roll a tide of Death thro' every freezing vein. 

O Spirit blest ! 80 

Whether th' eternal Throne around. 
Amidst the blaze of Cherubim, 
Thou pourest forth the grateful hymn, 
Or, soaring through the blest Domain, 
Enraptur'st Angels with thy strain, — 85 

Grant me, like thee, the lyre to sound, 
Like thee, with fire divine to glow — 
But ah ! when rage the Waves of Woe, 
Grant me with firmer breast t'oppose their 

hate. 
And soar beyond the storms with upright eye 

elate ! 9° 



10 ^tltct l^otm^ of Coleriuge 

ON RECEIVING AN ACCOUNT THAT 
HIS ONLY SISTER'S DEATH WAS 
INEVITABLE 

1790-1834 
The tear which mourn'd a brother's fate scarce 

dry — 
Pain after pain, and woe succeeding woe — 
Is my heart destined for another blow ? 
O my sweet sister ! and must thou too die ? 
Ah ! how has Disappointment pour'd the tear 
O'er infant Hope destroy'd by early frost ! 
How are ye gone, whom most my soul held 

dear ! 
Scarce had I loved you ere I mourn'd you lost ; 
Say, is this hollow eye, this heartless pain. 
Fated to rove thro' Life's wide cheerless 

plain — 
Nor father, brother, sister meet its ken — 
My woes, my joys unshared ! Ah ! long ere 

then 
On me thy icy dart, stern Death, be proved ; — 
Better to die, than live and not be loved ! 



tirije Haben 1 1 



THE RAVEN 

A CHRISTMAS TALE, TOLD BY A SCHOOL-BOY 
TO HIS LITTLE BROTHERS AND SISTERS 

1 791 P-I798 

Underneath a huge oak tree 

There was of swine a huge company, 

That grunted as they crunched the mast : 

For that was ripe, and fell full fast. 

Then they trotted away, for the wind grew 

high : 5 

One acorn they left, and no more might you 

spy. 
Next came a Raven, that liked not such folly: 
He belonged, they did say, to the witch Melan- 
choly ! 
Blacker was he than blackest jet. 
Flew low in the rain, and his feathers not wet. 10 
He picked up the acorn and buried it straight 
By the side of a river both deep and great. 
Where then did the Raven go? 
He went high and low. 
Over hill, over dale, did the black Raven go. 15 
Many Autumns, many Springs 
Travelled he with wandering wings : 
Many Summers, many Winters — 
I can't tell half his adventures. 



1 2 ^tlttt ipoem0 of CoUriDge 

At length he came back, and with him a She, 20 
And the acorn was grown to a tall oak tree. 
They built them a nest in the topmost bough, 
And young ones they had, and were happy enow. 
But soon came a woodman in leathern guise. 
His brow, like a pent-house, hung over his eyes. 25 
He'd an axe in his hand, not a word he spoke, 
But with many a hem ! and a sturdy stroke. 
At length he brought down the poor Raven's 

own oak. 
His young ones were killed ; for they could not 

depart, 
And their mother did die of a broken heart. 30 

The boughs from the trunk the woodman did 

sever ; 
And they floated it down on the course of the 

river. 
They sawed it in planks, and its bark they did 

strip. 
And with this tree and others they made a good 

ship. 
The ship, it was launched ; but in sight of the 

land 35 

Such a storm there did rise as no ship could 

withstand. 
It bulged on a rock, and the waves rush'd in 

fast : 



bonnet 13 

The old Raven flew round and round, and 
cawed to the blast. 



He heard the last shriek of the perishing 

souls — 
See ! see ! o'er the topmast the mad water rolls ! 40 
Right glad was the Raven, and ofF he went 
fleet. 
And Death riding home on a cloud he did meet. 
And he thank'd him again and again for this 
treat : 
They had taken his all, and Revenge was 

SWEET ! 

[We must not think so ; but forget and for- 
give, 45 

And what Heaven gives life to, we'll still let 
it live ! ] 

SONNET 

ON QUITTING SCHOOL FOR COLLEGE 
1791-1834 

Farewell parental scenes ! a sad farewell ! 
To you my grateful heart still fondly clings, 
Tho' fluttering round on Fancy's burnish'd wings 
Her tales of future Joy Hope loves to tell. 
Adieu, adieu ! ye much-loved cloisters pale ! 5 

Ah ! would those happy days return again, 



1 4 g)riect poems; of Coleriuge 

When 'neath your arches, free from every stain, 
I heard of guilt and wonder'd at the tale ! 
Dear haunts ! where oft my simple lays I sang. 
Listening meanwhile the echoings of my feet. 
Lingering I quit you, with as great a pang. 
As when erewhile, my weeping childhood, torn 
By early sorrow from my native seat. 
Mingled its tears with hers — my widow'd 
Parent lorn. 



ABSENCE 

A FAREWELL ODE ON QUITTING SCHOOL FOR 
JESUS COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE 

1791-1794 

Where graced with many a classic spoil 

Cam rolls his reverend stream along, 

I haste to urge the learned toil 

That sternly chides my love-lorn song : 

Ah me ! too mindful of the days 

Illumed by Passion's orient rays. 

When Peace, and Cheerfulness and Health 

Enriched me with the best of wealth. 

Ah fair Delights ! that o'er my soul 
On Memory's wing, like shadows fly ! 
Ah Flowers ! which Joy from Eden stole 
While Innocence stood smiling by ! — 



But cease, fond Heart ! this bootless moan : 
Those Hours on rapid Pinions flown 
Shall yet return, by Absence crowned, 15 

And scatter livelier roses round. 

The Sun who ne'er remits his fires 
On heedless eyes may pour the day : 
The Moon, that oft from Heaven retires, 
Endears her renovated ray. 20 

What though she leave the sky unblest 
To mourn awhile in murky vest ? 
When she relumes her lovely light, 
We bless the Wanderer of the Night. 

HAPPINESS 

1791 ?-i834 

On wide or narrow scale shall Man 

Most happily describe life's plan ? 

Say shall he bloom and wither there, 

Where first his infant buds appear; 

Or upwards dart with soaring force, 5 

And tempt some more ambitious course ? 

Obedient now to Hope's command, 
I bid each humble wish expand. 
And fair and bright Life's prospects seem. 
While Hope displays her cheering beam, 10 

And Fancy's vivid colourings stream. 



1 6 g)rtect l^otm& of ColeriDge 

While Emulation stands me nigh 
The Goddess of the eager eye. 

With foot advanced and anxious heart 
Now for the fancied goal I start : — 15 

Ah ! why will Reason intervene 
Me and my promised joys between ! 
She stops my course, she chains my speed, 
While thus her forceful words proceed : — 
' Ah ! listen, youth, ere yet too late, 20 

What evils on thy course may wait ! 
To bow the head, to bend the knee, 
A minion of Servility, 
At low Pride's frequent frowns to sigh, 
And watch the glance in Folly's eye ; 25 

To toil intense, yet toil in vain. 
And feel with what a hollow pain 
Pale Disappointment hangs her head 
O'er darling Expectation dead ! 

'The scene is changed and Fortune's gale 30 
Shall belly out each prosperous sail. 
Yet sudden wealth full well I know 
Did never happiness bestow. 
That wealth to which we were not born 
Dooms us to sorrow or to scorn. 35 

Behold yon flock which long had trod 
O'er the short grass of Devon's sod. 
To Lincoln's rank rich meads transferr'd, 
And in their fate thy own be fear'd ; 



I^appine^flf 17 

Through every limb contagions fly, 4° 

Deform'd and choked they burst and die. 

' When Luxury opens wide her arms, 
And smiling wooes thee to those charms. 
Whose fascination thousands own, 
Shall thy brows wear the stoic frown ? 45 

And when her goblet she extends 
Which maddening myriads press around. 
What power divine thy soul befriends 
That thou should'st dash it to the ground ? — 
No, thou shalt drink, and thou shalt know 50 

Her transient bliss, her lasting woe. 
Her maniac joys, that know no measure, 
And riot rude and painted pleasure ; — 
Till (sad reverse !) the Enchantress vile 
To frowns converts her magic smile ; 55 

Her train impatient to destroy. 
Observe her frown with gloomy joy ; 
On thee with harpy fangs they seize 
The hideous offspring of Disease, • 
Swoln Dropsy ignorant of Rest, 60 

And Fever garb'd in scarlet vest. 
Consumption driving the quick hearse. 
And Gout that howls the frequent curse. 
With Apoplex of heavy head 
That surely aims his dart of lead. 65 

' But say Life's joys unmixM were given 
To thee some favourite of Heaven : 



1 8 &t\ttt ^JDoem0 of ColeriDge 

Within, without, tho' all were health — 

Yet what e'en thus are Fame, Power, Wealth, 

But sounds that variously express, 70 

What's thine already — Happiness ! 

'Tis thine the converse deep to hold 

With all the famous sons of old ; 

And thine the happy waking dream 

While Hope pursues some favourite theme, 75 

As oft when Night o'er Heaven is spread, 

Round this maternal seat you tread. 

Where far from splendour, far from riot, 

In silence wrapt sleeps careless quiet. 

'Tis thine with fancy oft to talk, 80 

And thine the peaceful evening walk ; 

And what to thee the sweetest are — 

The setting sun, the evening star — 

The tints, which live along the sky. 

And Moon that meets thy raptured eye, 85 

Where oft the tear shall grateful start. 

Dear silent pleasures of the Heart ! 

Ah ! Being blest, for Heaven shall lend 

To share thy simple joys a friend ! 

Ah ! doubly blest, if Love supply 90 

His influence to complete thy joy. 

If chance some lovely maid thou find ■ 

To read thy visage in thy mind. ^\ 

' One blessing more demands thy care : — 
Once more to Heaven address the prayer : 95 



Mi0l) 19 

For humble independence pray 

The guardian genius of thy way ; 

Whom (sages say) in days of yore 

Meek Competence to Wisdom bore, 

So shall thy little vessel glide 3 

With a fair breeze adown the tide, 

And Hope, if e'er thou 'ginst to sorrow 

Remind thee of some fair to-morrow. 

Till Death shall close thy tranquil eye 

While Faith proclaims " thou shalt not die ! " ' 

A WISH 

WRITTEN IN JESUS WOOD, FEB. 10, I 792 

[^Sent, nvith the tivo pieces ivhich folloiv, to Mary E-vansy 
in a letter of that date."^ 

Lo ! through the dusky silence of the groves. 
Thro' vales irriguous, and thro' green retreats. 
With languid murmur creeps the placid stream 
And works its secret way. 

Awhile meand'ring round its native fields. 
It rolls the playful wave and winds its flight : 
Then downward flowing with awaken'd speed 
Embosoms in the Deep ! 

Thus thro' its silent tenor may my Life 
Smooth its meek stream by sordid wealth un- 
clogg'd. 



20 ^tlttt potm& of Colmuge 

Alike unconscious of forensic storms, 

And Glory's blood-stain' d palm ! 

And when dark Age shall close Life's little day, 
Satiate of sport, and weary of its toils. 
E'en thus may slumbrous Death my decent limbs is 
Compose with icy hand ! 
MS. 

TO A YOUNG LADY 

WITH A POEM ON THE FRENCH REVOLUTION 

1 792-1 796 

Much on my early youth I love to dwell. 

Ere yet I bade that friendly dome farewell. 

Where first, beneath the echoing cloisters pale, 

L heard of guilt and wondered at the tale ! 

Yet though the hours flew by on careless wing, 5 

Full heavily of Sorrow would I sing. 

Aye as the star of evening flung its beam 

In broken radiance on the wavy stream. 

My soul amid the pensive twilight gloom 

Mourned with the breeze, O Lee Boo! o'er 

thy tomb. 
Where'er I wandered, Pity still was near. 
Breathed from the heart and glistened in the tear: 
No knell that tolled but filled my anxious eye. 
And suffering Nature wept that one should die ! 



to a goung llau^ 21 

Thus to sad sympathies I soothed my breast, 15 
Calm, as the rainbow in the weeping West : 
When slumbering Freedom roused with high 

Disdain 
With giant fury burst her triple chain ! 
Fierce on her front the blasting Dog-star 

glowed ; 
Her banners, Hke a midnight meteor, flowed j ^o 
Amid the yelling of the storm-rent skies ! 
She came, and scattered battles from her eyes ! 
Then Exultation waked the patriot fire 
And swept with wilder hand the Alcaean lyre : 
Red from the Tyrant's wound I shook the lance, 25 
And strode in joy the reeking plains of France ! 

Fallen is the oppressor, friendless, ghastly, low. 
And my heart aches, though Mercy struck the 

blow. 
With wearied thought once more I seek the 

shade, 
Where peaceful Virtue weaves the Myrtle 

braid. 3° 

And O ! if Eyes whose holy glances roll, 
Swift messengers, and eloquent of soul ; 
If Smiles more winning, and a gentler Mien 
Than the love-wildered Maniac's brain hath seen 
Shaping celestial forms in vacant air, 35 



22 ^tittt jpoems; of ColertUge 

If these demand the empassioned Poet's care — 
If Mirth and softened Sense and Wit refined, 
The blameless features of a lovely mind ; 
Then haply shall my trembling hand assign 
No fading wreath to Beauty's saintly shrine. 40 
Nor, Sara ! thou these early flowers refuse — 
Ne'er lurk'd the snake beneath their simple 

hues ; 
No purple bloom the Child of Nature brings 
From Flattery's night-shade : as he feels he 

sings. 

SONGS OF THE PIXIES 

1793-1796 

The Pixies, in the superstition of Devonshire, are a 
race of beings invisibly small, and harmless or friendly 
to man. At a small distance from a village in that 
county, half way up a wood-covered hill, is an excava- 
tion called the Pixies' Parlour. The roots of old trees 
form its ceiling ; and on its sides are innumerable cy- 
phers, among which the author discovered his own 
cypher and those of his brothers, cut by the hand of 
their childhood. At the foot of the hill flows the river 
Otter. 

To this place the Author, during the summer months 
of the year 1793, conducted a party of young ladies j 
one of whom, of stature elegantly small, and of com- 
plexion colourless yet clear, was proclaimed the Faery 
Queen. On which occasion the following Irregular Ode 
was written. 



^ongsf of tl}t :^ivit& 23 

I 

Whom the untaught Shepherds call 

Pixies in their madrigal, 
Fancy's children, here we dwell : 

Welcome, Ladies ! to our cell. 
Here the wren of softest note 5 

Builds its nest and warbles well ; 
Here the blackbird strains his throat ; 

Welcome, Ladies ! to our cell. 

II 
When fades the moon all shadowy-pale, 
And scuds the cloud before the gale, 10 

Ere Morn with living gems bedight 
Purples the East with streaky light, 
We sip the furze-flower's fragrant dews 
Clad in robes of rainbow hues ; 
Or sport amid the rosy gleam 'S 

Soothed by the distant-tinkling team, 
While lusty Labour scouting sorrow 
Bids the Dame a glad good-morrow. 
Who jogs the accustomed road along. 
And paces cheery to her cheering song. ao 

III 

But not our filmy pinion 
We scorch amid the blaze of day. 
When Noontide's fiery-tressed minion, 
Flashes the fervid ray. 



24 Select iponn0 of Colertoge 

Aye from the sultry heat 25 

We to the cave retreat 
O'ercanopied by huge roots intertwined 
With wildest texture, blackened o'er with age : 
Round them their mantle green the ivies bind, 

Beneath whose foliage pale 30 

Fanned by the unfrequent gale 
We shield us from the Tyrant's mid-day rage. 

IV 

Thither, while the murmuring throng 
Of wild-bees hum their drowsy song, 
By Indolence and Fancy brought, 35 

A youthful Bard, ' unknown to Fame,* 
Wooes the Queen of Solemn Thought, 
And heaves the gentle misery of a sigh 
Gazing with tearful eye. 
As round our sandy grot appear 40 

Many a rudely-sculptured name 
To pensive Memory dear ! 
Weaving gay dreams of sunny-tinctured hue, 

We glance before his view: 
O'er his hush'd soul our soothing witcheries shed 45 
And twine our faery garlands round his head. 



When Evening's dusky car 
Crowned with her dewy star 



1 



Steals o*er the fading sky in shadowy flight ; 

On leaves of aspen trees 50 

We tremble to the breeze 
Veiled from the grosser ken of mortal sight. 

Or, haply, at the visionary hour, 
Along our wildly-bowered sequestered walk, 
We listen to the enamoured rustic's talk ; 55 

Heave with the heavings of the maiden's breast. 
Where young-eyed Loves have built their turtle 
nest; 
Or guide of soul-subduing power 
The electric flash, that from the melting eye 
Darts the fond question and the soft reply. 60 

VI 

Or through the mystic ringlets of the vale 
We flash our faery feet in gamesome prank ; 
Or, silent-sandal'd, pay our defter court. 
Circling the Spirit of the Western Gale, 
Where wearied with his flower-caressing 

sport, 65 

Supine he slumbers on a violet bank ; 
Then with quaint music hymn the parting gleam 
By lonely Otter's sleep-persuading stream ; 
Or where his wave with loud unquiet song 
Dash'd o'er the rocky channel froths along; 70 
Or where, his silver waters smoothed to rest. 
The tall tree's shadow sleeps upon his breast. 



26 g)elm jpoem^ of Coleriuge 

VII 

Hence thou lingerer, Light ! 
Eve saddens into Night. 
Mother of wildly-working dreams ! we view 75 
The sombre hours, that round thee stand 
With down-cast eyes (a duteous band !) 
Their dark robes dripping with the heavy dew. 
Sorceress of the ebon throne ! 
Thy power the Pixies own, 80 

When round thy raven brow 
Heaven's lucent roses glow, 
And clouds in watery colours drest 
Float in light drapery o'er thy sable vest ; 
What time the pale moon sheds a softer day 85 
Mellowing the woods beneath its pensive beam : 
For mid the quivering light 'tis ours to play. 
Aye dancing to the cadence of the stream. 

VIII 

Welcome, Ladies ! to the cell 

Where the blameless Pixies dwell: 90 

But thou. Sweet Nymph ! proclaimed our 
Faery Queen, 

With what obeisance meet 

Thy presence shall we greet? 
For lo ! attendant on thy steps are seen 

Graceful Ease in artless stole, 95] 

And white-robed Purity of soul, 



bonnet 27 

With Honour's softer mien ; 

Mirth of the loosely-flowing hair, 

And meek-eyed Pity eloquently fair, 

Whose tearful cheeks are lovely to the view, 

As snow-drop wet with dew. loi 

IX 

Unboastful Maid ! though now the Lily pale 

Transparent grace thy beauties meek; 
Yet ere again along the impurpling vale, 
The purpling vale and elfin-haunted grove, 105 
Young Zephyr his fresh flowers profusely throws, 

We'll tinge with livelier hues thy cheek ; 
And, haply, from the nectar-breathing Rose 
Extract a Blush for Love ! 

SONNET 

TO THE RIVER OTTER 

i793?-i797 

Dear native Brook ! wild Streamlet of the West ! 

How many various-fated years have past. 

What happy and what mournful hours, since 

last 

I skimmed the smooth thin stone along thy 

breast. 
Numbering its light leaps ! yet so deep imprest 5 
Sink the sweet scenes of childhood, that mine 
eyes 



28 g>elect UDoemsi of Coleriuge 

I never shut amid the sunny ray, 
But straight with all their tints thy waters rise, 
Thy crossing plank, thy marge with willows 
grey, 
And bedded sand that veined with various dyes 
Gleamed through thy bright transparence ! On 
my way. 
Visions of Childhood ! oft have ye beguiled 
Lone manhood's cares, yet waking fondest 
sighs : 
Ah ! that once more I were a careless Child ! 

LINES 

TO A BEAUTIFUL SPRING IN A VILLAGE 
.1793 ?-? 

Once more, sweet Stream ! with slow foot 

wandering near, 
I bless thy milky waters cold and clear. 
Escape the flashing of the noontide hours, 
With one fresh garland of Pierian flowers 
(Ere from thy zephyr-haunted brink I turn) 
My languid hand shall wreath thy mossy urn. 
For not through pathless grove with murmur 

rude 
Thou soothest the sad wood-nymph. Solitude ; 
Nor thine unseen in cavern depths to well. 
The Hermit-fountain of some dripping cell ! 



Pride of the Vale ! thy useful streams supply 
The scattered cots and peaceful hamlet nigh. 
The elfin tribe around thy friendly banks 
With infant uproar and soul-soothing pranks, 
Released from school, their little hearts at rest, 15 
Launch paper navies on thy waveless breast. 
The rustic here at eve with pensive look 
Whistling lorn ditties leans upon his crook, 
Or, starting, pauses with hope-ftiingled dread 
To list the much-loved maid's accustomed 

tread : 20 

She, vainly mindful of her dame's command, 
Loiters, the long-fill'd pitcher in her hand. 

Unboastful Stream ! thy fount with pebbled falls 
The faded form of past delight recalls. 
What time the morning sun of Hope arose, 25 
And all was joy ; save when another's woes 
A transient gloom upon my soul imprest. 
Like passing clouds impictured on thy breast. 
Life's current then ran sparkling to the noon, 
Or silvery stole beneath the pensive Moon : 30 
Ah ! now it works rude brakes and thorns 

among. 
Or o'er the rough rock bursts and foams along ! 



30 Select l^otm^ of Colmuge 

LINES 

ON AN AUTUMNAL EVENING 
1793-1796 

THOU wild Fancy, check thy wing ! No 

more 
Those thin white flakes, those purple clouds 

explore ! 
Nor there with happy spirits speed thy flight 
Bathed in rich amber-glowing floods of light ; 
Nor in yon gleam, where slow descends the day, 
With western peasants hail the morning ray ! 
Ah ! rather bid the perished pleasures move, 
A shadowy train, across the soul of Love ! 
O'er Disappointment's wintry desert fling 
Each flower that wreathed the dewy locks of 

Spring, 
When blushing, like a bride, from Hope's trim 

bower 
She leapt, awakened by the pattering shower. 
Now sheds the sinking Sun a deeper gleam. 
Aid, lovely Sorceress ! aid thy Poet's dream ! 
With faery wand O bid the Maid arise. 
Chaste Joyance dancing in her bright-blue eyes ; 
As erst when from the Muses' calm abode 

1 came, with Learning's meed not unbestowed ; 
When as she twined a laurel round my brow. 
And met my kiss, and half returned my vow. 



0*er all my frame shot rapid my thrilled heart, 
And every nerve confessed the electric dart. 

dear Deceit ! I see the Maiden rise, 
Chaste Joyance dancing in her bright-blue eyes ! 
When first the lark high-soaring swells his 

throat, 25 

Mocks the tired eye, and scatters the loud note, 

1 trace her footsteps on the accustomed lawn, 
I mark her glancing mid the gleams of dawn. 
When the bent flower beneath the night-dew 

weeps 
And on the lake the silver lustre sleeps, 30 

Amid the paly radiance soft and sad. 
She meets my lonely path in moon-beams clad. 
With her along the streamlet's brink I rove ; 
With her I list the warblings of the grove ; 
And seems in each low wind her voice to float 35 
Lone whispering Pity in each soothing note ! 

Spirits of Love ! ye heard her name ! Obey 
The powerful spell, and to my haunt repair. 
Whether on clustering pinions ye are there. 
Where rich snows blossom on the Myrtle-trees, 40 
Or with fond languishment around my fair 
Sigh in the loose luxuriance of her hair ; 
O heed the spell, and hither wing your way, 
Like far-off music, voyaging the breeze ! 



32 ^tlttt }jDoem0 of ColeriDge 

Spirits ! to you the infant Maid was given 
Formed by the wondrous Alchemy of Heaven ! 
No fairer Maid does Love's wide empire know, 
No fairer Maid e'er heaved the bosom's snow. 
A thousand Loves around her forehead fly ; 
A thousand Loves sit melting in her eye ; 
Love lights her smile — in Joy's red nectar dips 
His myrtle flower, and plants it on her lips. 
She speaks ! and hark that passion-warbled 

song — 
Still, Fancy ! still that voice, those notes pro- 
long. 
As sweet as when that voice with rapturous falls 
Shall wake the softened echoes of Heaven's 
Halls ! 

O (have I sigh'd) were mine the wizard's rod. 
Or mine the power of Proteus, changeful God ! 
A flower-entangled Arbour I would seem 
To shield my Love from Noontide's sultry 

beam : 
Or bloom a Myrtle, from whose odorous 

boughs 
My Love might weave gay garlands for her 

brows. 
When Twilight stole across the fading vale, 
To fan my Love I'd be the Evening Gale ; 
Mourn in the soft folds of her swelling vest, 



iLinesf 33 

And flutter my faint pinions on her breast ! 
On Seraph wing I'd float a Dream by night, 
To soothe my Love with shadows of de- 
light : — 
Or soar aloft to be the Spangled Skies, 
And gaze upon her with a thousand eyes ! 70 

As when the Savage, who his drowsy frame 
Had basked beneath the Sun's unclouded flame, 
Awakes amid the troubles of the air, 
The skiey deluge, and white lightning's 

glare — 
Aghast he scours before the tempest's sweep, 75 
And sad recalls the sunny hour of sleep : — 
So tossed by storms along Life's wildering way, 
Mine eye reverted views that cloudless day, 
When by my native brook I wont to rove. 
While Hope with kisses nursed the Infant 

Love. 80 

Dear native brook ! like Peace, so placidly 
Smoothing through fertile fields thy current 

meek ! 
Dear native brook ! where first young Poesy 
Stared wildly-eager in her noontide dream ! 
Where blameless pleasures dimple Quiet's 

cheek, 85 

As water-lilies ripple thy slow stream ! 



34 ^tlttt JDoentfl? of Coleriuge 

Dear native haunts ! where Virtue still is gay, 
Where Friendship's fixed star sheds a mellowed 

ray, 
Where Love a crown of thornless Roses wears. 
Where soften'd Sorrow smiles within her tears ; 90 
And Memory, with a Vestal's chaste employ. 
Unceasing feeds the lambent flame of joy ! 
No more your sky-larks melting from the sight 
Shall thrill the attuned heart-string with de- 
light — 
No more shall deck your pensive Pleasures 

sweet 95 

With wreaths of sober hue my evening seat. 
Yet dear to Fancy's eye your varied scene 
Of wood, hill, dale, and sparkling brook 

between ! 
Yet sweet to Fancy's ear the warbled song. 
That soars on Morning's wing your vales 

among. 100 

Scenes of my Hope ! the aching eye ye leave 
Like yon bright hues that paint the clouds of 

eve ! 
Tearful and saddening with the saddened blaze 
Mine eye the gleam pursues with wistful gaze : 
Sees shades on shades with deeper tint impend, 105 
Till chill and damp the moonless night descend. 



I 



lletDti 35 

LEWTI 

OR THE CIRCASSIAN LOVE-CHAUNT 
1 794-1 798 

At midnight by the stream I roved, 
To forget the form I loved. 
Image of Lewti ! from my mind 
Depart ; for Lewti is not kind. 

The Moon was high, the moonlight gleam 5 

And the shadow of a star 
Heaved upon Tamaha's stream; 

But the rock shone brighter far. 
The rock half sheltered from my view 
By pendent boughs of tressy yew. — 10 

So shines my Lewti's forehead fair. 
Gleaming through her sable hair. 
Image of Lewti ! from my mind 
Depart ; for Lewti is not kind. 

I saw a cloud of palest hue, '5 

Onward to the moon it passed ; 
Still brighter and more bright it grew. 
With floating colours not a few. 

Till it reach'd the moon at last : 
Then the cloud was wholly bright, ao 

With a rich and amber light ! 
And so with many a hope I seek 



36 g)tlect l^ottn& of ColeriDge 

And with such joy I find my Lewti ; 
And even so my pale wan cheek 

Drinks in as deep a flush of beauty ! 25 

Nay, treacherous image ! leave my mind, 
If Lewti never will be kind. 
The little cloud — it floats away, 

Away it goes ; away so soon ? 
Alas ! it has no power to stay : 30 

Its hues are dim, its hues are grey — 

Away it passes from the moon! 
How mournfully it seems to fly, 

Ever fading more and more. 
To joyless regions of the sky — 35 

And now 'tis whiter than before ! 
As white as my poor cheek will be. 

When, Lewti ! on my couch I lie, 
A dying man for love of thee. 
Nay, treacherous image ! leave my mind — 40 
And yet, thou didst not look unkind. 

I saw a vapour in the sky, 

Thin, and white, and very high ; 
I ne'er beheld so thin a cloud : 

Perhaps the breezes that can fly 45 

Now below and now above. 
Have snatched aloft the lawny shroud 

Of Lady fair — that died for love. 
For maids, as well as youths, have perished 



iletoti 37 

From fruitless love too fondly cherished. 50 

Nay, treacherous image ! leave my mind — 
For Lewti never will be kind. 

Hush ! my heedless feet from under 
Slip the crumbling banks for ever : 

Like echoes to a distant thunder, 55 

They plunge into the gentle river. 

The river-swans have heard my tread, 

And startle from their reedy bed. 

O beauteous birds ! methinks ye measure 

Your movements to some heavenly tune ! 60 

beauteous birds ! 'tis such a pleasure 
To see you move beneath the moon, 

1 would it were your true delight 
To sleep by day and wake all night. 

I know the place where Lewti lies 65 

When silent night has closed her eyes : 

It is a breezy jasmine-bower. 
The nightingale sings o'er her head : 

Voice of the Night ! had I the power 
That leafy labyrinth to thread, 
And creep, like thee, with soundless tread, 
I then might view her bosom white 
Heaving lovely to my sight. 
As these two swans together heave 
On the gently-swelling wave. 75 



70 



38 g)elect l^otma of ColeriDge 

Oh ! that she saw me in a dream, 
And dreamt that I had died for care ; 

All pale and wasted I would seem 
Yet fair withal, as spirits are ! 

I'd die indeed, if I might see 80 

Her bosom heave, and heave for me ! 

Soothe, gentle image ! soothe my mind ! 

To-morrow Lewti may be kind. 



THE FADED FLOWER 

1794-1836 

Ungrateful he, who pluckM thee from thy 

stalk, 
Poor faded flow'ret ! on his careless way ; 
Inhal'd awhile thy odours on his walk. 
Then onward pass'd and left thee to decay. 
Ah ! melancholy emblem ! had I seen 
Thy modest beauties dew'd with evening's gem, 
I had not rudely cropp'd thy parent stem. 
But left thee, blushing, 'mid the enliven'd green. 
And now I bend me o'er thy wither'd bloom 
And drop the tear — as Fancy, at my side. 
Deep-sighing, points the fair frail Abra's tomb — 
' Like thine, sad flower, was that poor wanderer's 

pride ! 
Oh ! lost to love and truth, whose selfish joy 
Tasted her vernal sweets, but tasted to destroy ! ' 



2Dome0tic peace 39 

DOMESTIC PEACE 

[From *The Fall of Robespierre,' Act I.] 
I 794-1 794 
Tell me, on what holy ground 
May Domestic Peace be found ? 
Halcyon daughter of the skies, 
Tar on fearful wings she flies. 
From the pomp of Sceptered State, 
From the Rebel's noisy hate. 
In a cottaged vale She dwells 
Listening to the Sabbath bells ! 
Still around her steps are seen 
Spotless Honour's meeker mien. 
Love, the sire of pleasing fears. 
Sorrow smiling through her tears, 
And conscious of the past employ 
Memory, bosom-spring of joy. 

ON A DISCOVERY MADE TOO 
LATE 

1 794-1 796 
Thou bleedest, my poor Heart ! and thy distress 
Reasoning I ponder with a scornful smile 
And probe thy sore wound sternly, though the 

while 
Swoln be mine eye and dim with heaviness. 



40 &t\ttt UDorntfif of ColeriDge 

Why didst thou listen to Hope's whisper bland ? 
Or, listening, why forget the healing tale, 
When Jealousy with feverish fancies pale 
Jarred thy fine fibres with a maniac's hand ? 
Faint was that Hope, and ray less ! — Yet 'twas 

fair 
And soothed with many a dream the hour of rest : 
Thou should'st have loved it most, when most 

opprest. 
And nursed it with an agony of care, 
Even as a mother her sweet infant heir 
That wan and sickly droops upon her breast ! 

LA FAYETTE 

1794-1794,5 
As when far off the warbled strains are heard 
That soar on Morning's wing the vales 

among ; 
Within his cage the imprisoned matin bird 
Swells the full chorus with a generous song : 

He bathes no pinion in the dewy light. 

No Father's joy, no Lover's bliss he shares, 
Yet still the rising radiance cheers his sight — 

His fellows' freedom soothes the captive's cares ! 

*^* The above beautiful sonnet was written antecedently to the 
joyful account of the Patriot's escape from the Tyrant's Dungeon. 
[Note in M. C/i-l — December 15, 1794. 



®o a iFrienu 41 

Thou, Fayette ! who didst wake with start- 
ling voice 
Life's better sun from that long wintry night, 
Thus in thy Country's triumphs shalt rejoice 
And mock with raptures high the dungeon's 
might : 

For lo ! the morning struggles into day, 
And Slavery's spectres shriek and vanish from 
the ray ! 

TO A FRIEND 

[CHARLES lamb] 

Together with an Unfinish*^ ' Poem 
1794-1" . 

Thus far my scantv ' ^m hath built the rhyme 
Elaborate and swelimg : yet the heart 
Not owns it. From thy spirit-breathing powers 
I ask not now, my friend ! the aiding verse. 
Tedious to thee, and from thy anxious thought 
Of dissonant mood. In fancy (well I know) 
From business wandering far and local cares. 
Thou creepest round a dear-loved Sister's bed 
With noiseless step, and watchest the faint look, 
Soothing each pang with fond solicitude. 
And tenderest tones medicinal of love. 
I too a Sister had, an only Sister — 



42 Select |Donn0 of Coleriuge 

She loved me dearly, and I doted on her 1 

To her I pour'd forth all my puny sorrows, 

(As sick Patient in his Nurse's arms) 15 

And of the heart those hidden maladies 

That even from Friendship's eye will shrink 

ashamed. 
O ! I have woke at midnight, and have wept, 
Because she was not ! — Cheerily, dear Charles ! 
Thou thy best friend shalt cherish many a year : 20 
Such warm presagings feel I of high Hope. 
For not uninterested the dear Maid 
I've view'd — her soul affectionate yet wise, 
Her polish'd wit as mild as lambent glories 
That play around a sainted infant's head. 25 

He knows (the Spirit that in secret sees. 
Of whose omniscient and all-spreading Love 
Aught to implore were impotence of mind) 
That my mute thoughts are sad before his 

throne. 
Prepared, when he his healing ray vouchsafes, 30 
To pour forth thanksgiving with lifted heart. 
And praise Him Gracious with a Brother's Joy ! 



^onoD^ on t\)t wmi) of Cljatterton 43 



MONODY ON THE DEATH OF 
CHATTERTON 

1794, 1829-1834 

O WHAT a wonder seems the fear of death, 
Seeing how gladly we all sink to sleep, 
Babes, Children, Youths, and Men, 
Night following night for threescore years and 

ten ! 
But doubly strange, where life is but a breath 
To sigh and pant with, up Want's rugged steep. 

Away, Grim Phantom ! Scorpion King, away ! 
Reserve thy terrors and thy stings display 
For coward Wealth and Guilt in robes of State ! 
Lo ! by the grave I stand of one, for whom 
A prodigal Nature and a niggard Doom 
(That all bestowing, this withholding all) 
Made each chance knell from distant spire or 

dome 
Sound like a seeking Mother's anxious call. 
Return, poor Child ! Home, weary truant, home ! 

Thee, Chatterton ! these unblest stones protect 
From want, and the bleak freezings of neglect. 
Too long before the vexing Storm-blast driven 
Here hast thou found repose ! beneath this sod ! 



44 Select l^otm^ of ColeriDge 

Thou ! O vain word ! thou dwell'st not with 

the clod ! 20 

Amid the shining Host of the Forgiven 
Thou at the throne of mercy and thy God 
The triumph of redeeming Love dost hymn 
(Believe it, O my Soul !) to harps of Seraphim. 

Yet oft, perforce ('tis suffering Nature's call), 25 
I weep that heaven-born Genius so shall fall ; 
And oft, in Fancy's saddest hour, my soul 
Averted shudders at the poisoned bowl. 
Now groans my sickening heart, as still I view 

Thy corse of livid hue ; 30 

Now indignation checks the feeble sigh. 
Or flashes through the tear that glistens in mine 
eye ! 

Is this the land of song-ennobled line ? 

Is this the land, where Genius ne'er in vain 

Poured forth his lofty strain ? 35 

Ah me ! yet Spenser, gentlest bard divine, 
Beneath chill Disappointment's shade. 
His weary limbs in lonely anguish lay'd. 

And o'er her darling dead 

Pity hopeless hung her head, 40 

While ' mid the pelting of that merciless 

storm,' 
Sunk to the cold earth Otway's famished form ! 



^onou^ on t\}t SDeatt) of C^iatterton 45 

Sublime of thought, and confident of fame, 
From vales where Avon winds the Minstrel 
came. 

Light-hearted youth ! aye, as he hastes 
along, 45 

He meditates the future song. 
How dauntless iElla fray'd the Dacyan foe ; 

And while the numbers flowing strong 

In eddies whirl, in surges throng. 
Exulting in the spirits' genial throe 50 

In tides of power his life-blood seems to flow. 

And now his cheeks with deeper ardors flame, 
His eyes have glorious meanings, that declare 
More than the light of outward day shines there, 
A holier triumph and a sterner aim ! 55 

Wings grow within him ; and he soars above 
Or Bard's or Minstrel's lay of war or love. 
Friend to the friendless, to the sufferer health. 
He hears the widow's prayer, the good man's 

praise ; 
To scenes of bliss transmutes his fancied 

wealth, 60 

And young and old shall now see happy days. 
On many a waste he bids trim gardens rise. 
Gives the blue sky to many a prisoner's eyes ; 
And now in wrath he grasps the patriot steel. 
And her own iron rod he makes Oppression feel. 65 



46 Select jpoemsf of Colrriuge 

Sweet Flower of Hope ! free Nature's genial 

child ! 
That didst so fair disclose thy early bloom, 
Filling the wide air with a rich perfume ! 
For thee in vain all heavenly aspects smil'd ; 
From the hard world brief respite could they 

win — 70 

The frost nipp'd sharp without, the canker 

prey'd within ! 
Ah ! where are fled the charms of vernal 

Grace, 
And Joy's wild gleams that lightened o'er thy 

face ? 
Youth of tumultuous soul, and haggard eye ! 
Thy wasted form, thy hurried steps I view, 75 

On thy wan forehead starts the lethal dew. 
And oh ! the anguish of that shuddering sigh ! 

Such were the struggles of the gloomy hour. 

When Care, of withered brow. 
Prepared the poison's death-cold power : 80 
Already to thy lips was raised the bowl. 
When near thee stood Affection meek 
(Her bosom bare, and wildly pale her 
cheek) 
Thy sullen gaze she bade thee roll 
On scenes that well might melt thy soul ; 85 
Thy native cot she flashed upon thy view, 



^onoD^ on tl)e wm^ of Clftattmon 47 

Thy native cot, where still, at close of day. 
Peace smiling sate, and listened to thy lay ; 
Thy sister's shrieks she bade thee hear, 
And mark thy mother's thrilling tear ; 90 

See, see her breast's convulsive throe. 

Her silent agony of woe ! 
Ah ! dash the poisoned chalice from thy hand ! 

And thou hadst dashed it, at her soft command. 
But that Despair and Indignation rose, 95 

And told again the story of thy woes ; 
Told the keen insult of the unfeeling heart. 
The dread dependence on the low-born mind ; 
Told every pang, with which thy soul must 

smart. 
Neglect, and grinning Scorn, and Want com- 
bined ! 100 
Recoiling quick, thou badest the friend of pain 
Roll the black tide of Death through every 
freezing vein ! 

Ye woods ! that wave o er Avon's rocky steep. 
To Fancy's ear sweet is your murmuring deep ! 
P'or here she loves the cypress wreath to 

weave ; 105 

Watching, with wistful eye, the saddening tints 

of eve. 
Here, far from men, amid this pathless grove. 



48 ^tlttt l^otm& of Coln:iage 

In solemn thought the Minstrel wont to rove, 
Like star-beam on the slow sequestered tide 
Lone-glittering, through the high tree branch- 
ing wide. no 
And here, in Inspiration's eager hour, 
When most the big soul feels the mastering 
power. 
These wilds, these caverns roaming o'er. 
Round which the screaming sea-gulls soar, 
With wild unequal steps he passed along, 115 
Oft pouring on the winds a broken song : 
Anon, upon some rough rock's fearful brow 
Would pause abrupt — and gaze upon the 
waves below. 

Poor Chatterton ! he sorrows for thy fate 
Who would have praised and loved thee, ere 

too late. 120 

Poor Chatterton ! farewell ! of darkest hues 
This chaplet cast I on thy unshaped tomb ; 
But dare no longer on the sad theme muse, 
Lest kindred woes persuade a kindred doom : 
For oh ! big gall-drops, shook from Folly's wing, 125 
Have blackened the fair promise of my spring ; 
And the stern Fate transpierced with viewless 

dart 
The last pale Hope that shivered at my heart ! 



^onou^ on t^t SDeatt) of Ctiattmon 49 

Hence, gloomy thoughts ! no more my soul 

shall dwell 
On joys that were ! no more endure to weigh 130 
The shame and anguish of the evil day, 
Wisely forgetful ! O'er the ocean swell 
Sublime of Hope I seek the cottaged dell 
Where Virtue calm with careless step may stray ; 
And, dancing to the moon-light roundelay, i35 
The wizard Passions weave a holy spell ! 

O Chatterton ! that thou wert yet alive ! 

Sure thou would'st spread the canvass to the gale. 

And love with us the tinkling team to drive 

O'er peaceful P'reedom's undivided dale ; 140 

And we, at sober eve, would round thee throng. 

Hanging, enraptured, on thy stately song. 

And greet with smiles the young-eyed Poesy 

All deftly masked as hoar Antiquity. 

Alas, vain Phantasies ! the fleeting brood HS 

Of Woe self-solaced in her dreamy mood ! 
Yet will I love to follow the sweet dream. 
Where Susquehannah pours his untamed stream ; 
And on some hill, whose forest-frowning side 
Waves o'er the murmurs of his calmer tide, ^5° 
Will raise a solemn Cenotaph to thee. 
Sweet Harper of time-shrouded Minstrelsy ! 
And there, soothed sadly by the dirgeful wind. 
Muse on the sore ills I had left behind. 



50 g)elect IIDoems! of Coleriuge 

TO THE NIGHTINGALE 

1795 ?-i 796 
Sister of love-lorn Poets, Philomel ! 
How many Bards in city garret pent, 
While at their window they with downward eye 
Mark the faint lamp-beam on the kennell'd mud. 
And listen to the drowsy cry of Watchmen 
(Those hoarse unfeather'd Nightingales of 

Time !), 
How many wretched Bards address thy narhe. 
And hers, the full-orb'd Queen that shines 

above. 
But I do hear thee, and the high bough mark. 
Within whose mild moon-mellow'd foliage hid 
Thou warblest sad thy pity-pleading strains. 

! I have listen'd, till my working soul. 
Waked by those strains to thousand phantasies, 
Absorb'd hath ceased to listen ! Therefore oft, 

1 hymn thy name : and with a proud delight 
Oft will I tell thee. Minstrel of the Moon ! 

' Most musical, most melancholy ' Bird ! 
That all thy soft diversities of tone, 
Tho' sweeter far than the delicious airs 
That vibrate from a white-arm'd Lady's harp. 
What time the languishment of lonely love 
Melts in her eye, and heaves her breast of 
snow. 



ilme0 51 

Are not so sweet as is the voice of her, 
My Sara — best beloved of human kind ! 
When breathing the pure soul of tenderness 25 
She thrills me with the Husband's promised 
name ! 

LINES 

COMPOSED WHILE CLIMBING THE LEFT ASCENT 
OF BROCKLEY COOMB, SOMERSETSHIRE, MAY 
1795 

With many a pause and oft reverted eye 
I climb the Coomb's ascent : sweet songsters near 
Warble in shade their wild-wood melody : 
Far ofF the unvarying Cuckoo soothes my ear. 
Up scour the startling stragglers of the flock 5 
That on green plots o'er precipices browze : 
From the forced fissures of the naked rock 
The Yew-tree bursts ! Beneath its dark green 

boughs 
(Mid which the May-thorn blends its blossoms 

white) 
Where broad smooth stones jut out in mossy 

seats, 10 

I rest : — and now have gained the topmost site. 
Ah ! what a luxury of landscape meets 
My gaze ! Proud towers, and cots more dear 

to me, 



52 Select jponnsf of Colmtige 

Elm-shadow' d fields, and prospect-bounding 

sea ! 
Deep sighs my lonely heart : I drop the tear : 15 
Enchanting spot ! O were my Sara here ! 

THE EOLIAN HARP 

COMPOSED AT CLEVEDON, SOMERSETSHIRE 
1 795-1 796 

My pensive Sara ! thy soft cheek reclined 
Thus on mine arm, most soothing sweet it is 
To sit beside our cot, our cot o'ergrown 
With white-flowered Jasmin, and the broad- 
leaved Myrtle, 
(Meet emblems they of Innocence and Love !), 5 
And watch the clouds, that late were rich with 

light. 
Slow saddening round, and mark the star of eve 
Serenely brilliant (such should wisdom be) 
Shine opposite ! How exquisite the scents 
Snatched from yon bean-field ! and the world 

so hushed ! 10 

The stilly murmur of the distant sea 
Tells us of silence. 

And that simplest lute, 
Placed length-ways in the clasping casement, 

hark ! 
How by the desultory breeze caressed, 



Like some coy maid half yielding to her lover, 15 
It pours such sweet upbraiding, as must needs 
Tempt to repeat the wrong ! And now, its 

strings 
Boldlier swept, the long sequacious notes 
Over delicious surges sink and rise. 
Such a soft floating witchery of sound ao 

As twilight Elfins make, when they at eve 
Voyage on gentle gales from Fairy-Land, 
Where Melodies round honey-dropping flowers. 
Footless and wild, like birds of Paradise, 
Nor pause, nor perch, hovering on untamed 

wing ! as 

O ! the one life within us and abroad. 
Which meets all motion and becomes its soul, 
A light in sound, a sound-like power in light 
Rhythm in all thought, and joyance every 

where — 
Methinks, it should have been impossible 3® 

Not to love all things in a world so filled ; 
Where the breeze warbles, and the mute still air 
Is Music slumbering on her instrument. 

And thus, my love ! as on the midway slope 
Of yonder hill I stretch my limbs at noon, 35 

Whilst through my half-closed eye-lids I behold 
The sunbeams dance, like diamonds, on the 
main, 



54 &tlttt l|Doem0 of Colmtjge 

And tranquil muse upon tranquillity ; 

Full many a thought uncalled and undetained, 

And many idle flitting phantasies, 4° 

Traverse my indolent and passive brain, 

As wild and various as the random gales 

That swell and flutter on this subject lute ! 

And what if all of animated nature 
Be but organic harps diversely framed, 45 

That tremble into thought, as o'er them sweeps 
Plastic and vast, one intellectual breeze. 
At once the Soul of each, and God of all ? 

But thy more serious eye a mild reproof 
Darts, O beloved woman ! nor such thoughts 5° 
Dim and unhallowed dost thou not reject. 
And biddest me walk humbly with my God. 
Meek daughter in the family of Christ ! 
Well hast thou said and holily dispraised 
These shapings of the unregenerate mind ; 55 

Bubbles that glitter as they rise and break 
On vain Philosophy's aye-babbling spring. 
For never guiltless may I speak of him. 
The Incomprehensible ! save when with awe 
I praise him, and with Faith that inly feels; 6o 
Who with his saving mercies healed me, 
A sinful and most miserable man, 
Wildered and dark, and gave me to possess 
Peace, and this cot, and thee, dear honoured Maid ! 



Mrtlmton^ 55 

REFLECTIONS ON HAVING LEFT 
A PLACE OF RETIREMENT 

Sermoni propriora. — HOR. 
1795-1796 
Low was our pretty Cot : our tallest rose 
Peeped at the chamber-window. We could 

hear 
At silent noon, and eve, and early morn. 
The sea's faint murmur. In the open air 
Our myrtles blossom'd ; and across the porch 
Thick jasmins twined : the little landscape 

round 
Was green and woody, and refreshed the eye. 
It was a spot which you might aptly call 
The Valley of Seclusion ! Once I saw 
(Hallowing his Sabbath-day by quietness) 
A wealthy son of commerce saunter by, 
Bristowa's citizen : methought, it calmed 
His thirst of idle gold, and made him muse 
With wiser feehngs : for he paused, and looked 
With a pleased sadness, and gazed all around. 
Then eyed our Cottage, and gazed round again. 
And sighed, and said, it was a Blessed Place. 
And we were blessed. Oft with patient ear 
Long-listening to the viewless sky-lark's note 
(Viewless, or haply for a moment seen 
Gleaming on sunny wings) in whispered tones 



56 ^tlttt ipoent0 of Coleritige 

I've said to my beloved, ' Such, sweet girl ! 
The inobtrusive song of Happiness, 
Unearthly minstrelsy ! then only heard 
When the soul seeks to hear; when all is 

hushed, 25 

And the heart listens ! ' 

But the time, when first 
From that low dell, steep up the stony mount 
I climbed with perilous toil and reached the top, 
Oh ! what a goodly scene ! Here the bleak 

mount, 
The bare bleak mountain speckled thin with 

sheep ; 30 

Grey clouds, that shadowing spot the sunny 

fields ; 
And river, now with bushy rocks o'erbrowed. 
Now winding bright and full, with naked 

banks ; 
And seats, and lawns, the abbey and the wood, 
And cots, and hamlets, and faint city-spire ; 35 

The Channel there^ the Islands and white sails. 
Dim coasts, and cloud-like hills, and shoreless 

Ocean — 
It seem'd like Omnipresence ! God, me- 

thought. 
Had built him there a Temple : the whole 

World 



liXtUtttioM S7 

Seemed imaged in its vast circumference : 40 

No wish profaned my overwhelmed heart. 
Blest hour ! It was a luxury, — to be ! 

Ah ! quiet dell ! dear cot, and mount sublime ! 
I was constrained to quit you. Was it right. 
While my unnumbered brethren toiled and 

bled, 45 

That I should dream away the entrusted hours 
On rose-leaf beds, pampering the coward heart 
With feelings all too delicate for use ? 
Sweet is the tear that from some Howard's eye 
Drops on the cheek of one he lifts from earth : 50 
And he that works me good with unmoved face. 
Does it but half: he chills me while he aids, 
My benefactor, not my brother man ! 
Yet even this, this cold beneficence 
Praise, praise it, O my Soul ! oft as thou 

scann'st 55 

The sluggard Pity's vision-weaving tribe ! 
Who sigh for wretchedness, yet shun the 

wretched. 
Nursing in some delicious solitude 
Their slothful loves and dainty sympathies ! 
I therefore go, and join head, heart, and hand, 60 
Active and firm, to fight the bloodless fight 
Of science, freedom, and the truth in Christ. 
Yet oft when after honourable toil 



58 g>elect poettt0 of ColeriDge 

Rests the tired mind, and waking loves to 

dream, 
My spirit shall revisit thee, dear Cot ! 65 

Thy jasmin and thy window-peeping rose, 
And myrtles fearless of the mild sea-air. 
And I shall sigh fond wishes — sweet abode ! 
Ah ! — had none greater ! And that all had 

such ! 
It might be so — but the time is not yet. 70 

Speed it, O Father ! Let thy Kingdom come ! 

ON OBSERVING A BLOSSOM ON 
THE FIRST OF FEBRUARY 1796 

1796 
Sweet flower ! that peeping from thy russet 

stem 
Unfoldest timidly, (for in strange sort 
This dark, frieze-coated, hoarse, teeth-chatter- 
ing month 
Hath borrow'd Zephyr's voice, and gazed upon 

thee 
With blue voluptuous eye) alas, poor Flower ! 5 
These are but flatteries of the faithless year. 
Perchance, escaped its unknown polar cave, 
Even now the keen North-East is on its way. 
Flower that must perish ! shall I liken thee 
To some sweet girl of too too rapid growth 10 



#n (Db^erbing a 115lo5^0om 59 

Nipp'd by consumption mid untimely charms ? 
Or to Bristowa's bard, the wondrous boy ! 
An amaranth, which earth scarce seem'd to own. 
Till disappointment came, and pelting wrong 
Beat it to earth? or with indignant grief 15 

Shall I compare thee to poor Poland's hope. 
Bright flower of hope killed in the opening bud ? 
Farewell, sweet blossom ! better fate be thine 
And mock my boding ! Dim similitudes 
Weaving in moral strains, I've stolen one hour ao 
From anxious Self, Life's cruel task-master ! 
And the warm wooings of this sunny day 
Tremble along my frame and harmonize 
The attempered organ, that even saddest 

thoughts 
Mix with some sweet sensations, like harsh 

tones 25 

Played deftly on a soft-toned instrument. 



TO 



1796 ?-i836 

I MIX in life, and labour to seem free. 

With common persons pleased and common 
things. 
While every thought and action tends to thee. 
And every impulse from thy influence 
springs. 



6o g)elect UDoentfif of Coleritige 



TO A PRIMROSE 

THE FIRST SEEN IN THE SEASON 

1796-1796 

Nitens et roboris expers 
Turget et insolida est : et spe delectat. 

Ovid, Me tarn. 

Tny smiles I note, sweet early flower, 
That peeping from thy rustic bower 
The festive news to earth dost bring, 
A fragrant messenger of spring. 

But, tender blossom, why so pale ? s 

Dost hear stern winter in the gale ? 
And didst thou tempt the ungentle sky 
To catch one vernal glance and die ? 

Such the wan lustre sickness wears 

When health's first feeble beam appears ; 10 

So languid are the smiles that seek 

To settle on the care-worn cheek 

When timorous hope the head uprears. 

Still drooping and still moist with tears. 

If, through dispersing grief, be seen 15 

Of bliss the heavenly spark serene. 



§)onnet 6i 

And sweeter far the early blow, 

Fast following after storms of woe, 

Than (comfort's riper season come) 

Are full-blown joys and pleasure's gaudy bloom. 20 



SONNET 

TO A FRIEND WHO ASKED, HOW I FELT WHEN 
THE NURSE FIRST PRESENTED MY INFANT 
TO ME 

1796-1797 

Charles ! my slow heart was only sad, when 
first 

I scanned that face of feeble infancy : 
For dimly on my thoughtful spirit burst 

All I had been, and all my child might be ! 
But when I saw it on its mother's arm. 

And hanging at her bosom (she the while 

Bent o'er its features with a tearful smile) 
Then I was thrilled and melted, and most 

warm 
Impressed a father's kiss : and all beguiled 

Of dark remembrance and presageful fear, 

I seemed to see an angel-form appear — 
'Twas even thine, beloved woman mild ! 

So for the mother's sake the child was dear. 
And dearer was the mother for the child. 



62 g>elect l^otnus of ColeriDge 



LINES COMPOSED IN A CONCERT- 
ROOM 

1 796-1 799 

O GIVE me, from this heartless scene released, 
To hear our old musician, blind and grey, 

(Whom stretching from my nurse's arms I 
kissed,) 
His Scottish tunes and warlike marches play. 

By moonshine, on the balmy summer-night, 5 

The while I dance amid the tedded hay 

With merry maids, whose ringlets toss in light. 

Or lies the purple evening on the bay 
Of the calm glossy lake, O let me hide 

Unheard, unseen, behind the alder-trees, 10 

For round their roots the fisher's boat is tied. 

On whose trim seat doth Edmund stretch at 
ease, 
And while the lazy boat sways to and fro. 

Breathes in his flute sad airs, so wild and 
slow. 
That his own cheek is wet with quiet tears. 15 

But O, dear Anne ! when midnight wind ca- 
reers. 
And the gust pelting on the out-house shed 



mt 63 

Makes the cock shrilly in the rain-storm 

crow, 
To hear thee sing some ballad full of woe, 
Ballad of ship-wreck'd sailor floating dead, 20 

Whom his own true-love buried in the 
sands ! 
Thee, gentle woman, for thy voice remeasures 
Whatever tones and melancholy pleasures 

The things of Nature utter ; birds or trees. 
Or moan of ocean-gale in weedy caves, 25 

Or where the stiff grass mid the heath-plant 
waves, 
Murmur and music thin of sudden breeze. 

ODE ON THE DEPARTING YEAR 

1 796-1 796 

lov lOV, &> & KUKoi. 

'Ttt' ad fi€ Seivhs opOofiavreias irSvos 
"STpofieT, Tapdffawu (ppoifiiois e(prifjLiois. 

Th fifWov {{^ei. Ka\ (t6 /jC 4v rdx^i irapiiiv 
"Ayav a.Ar)d6/jLavTiv o'lKreipas epets, 

iEscHYL. A^am, 1215-18; 1240-41. 

ARGUMENT 

The Ode commences with an address to the Divine 
Providence, that regulates into one vast harmony all the 
events of time, however calamitous some of them may- 
appear to mortals. The second Strophe calls on men 
to suspend their private joys and sorrows, and devote 
them for a while to the cause of human nature in 



64 ^tlttt ipoenttf of Coleriuge 

general. The first Epode speaks of the Empress of 
Russia, who died of an apoplexy on the i yth of Novem- 
ber 1796 5 having just concluded a subsidiary treaty 
with the Kings combined against France. The first 
and second Antistrophe describe the Image of the De- 
parting Year, etc., as in a vision. The second Epode 
prophesies, in anguish of spirit, the downfall of this 
country. 



Spirit who sweepest the wild Harp of Time ! 

It is most hard, with an untroubled ear 

Thy dark inwoven harmonies to hear ! 
Yet, mine eye fixed on Heaven's unchanging 

clime 
Long had I listened, free from mortal fear, 5 

With inward stillness, and submitted mind ; 

When lo ! its folds far waving on the wind, 
I saw the train of the Departing Year ! 

Starting from my silent sadness 

Then with no unholy madness 10 

Ere yet the entered cloud foreclosed my sight, 
I raised the impetuous song, and solemnized 
his flight. 

II 

Hither, from the recent tomb. 
From the prison's direr gloom. 
From distemper's midnight anguish ; 15 



d^ue 65 

And thence, where poverty doth waste and 
languish ; 
Or where, his two bright torches blending. 

Love illumines Manhood's maze ; 
Or where o'er cradled infants blending, 
Hope has fixed her wishful gaze; 20 

Hither, in perplexed dance, 
Ye woes ! ye young-eyed Joys ! advance ! 
By time's wild harp, and by the hand 
Whose indefatigable sweep 
Raises its fateful strings from sleep, 25 
I bid you haste, a mixed tumultuous band ! 
From every private bower. 

And each domestic hearth. 
Haste for one solemn hour; 
And with a loud and yet a louder voice, 30 
O'er Nature struggling in portentous birth. 

Weep and rejoice ! 
Still echoes the dread Name that o'er the earth 
Let slip the storm, and woke the brood of 
Hell: 
And now advance in saintly Jubilee 35 

Justice and Truth ! They too have heard thy 
spell. 
They too obey thy name, divinest Liberty ! 

Ill 

I marked Ambition in his war-array ! 



66 g>elect J^otma of Colmtige 

I heard the mailed Monarch's troublous 
cry — 
' Ah ! wherefore does the Northern Conqueress 

stay ! 40 

Groans not her chariot on its onward way ? ' 
Fly, mailed Monarch, fly ! 
Stunned by Death's twice mortal mace, 
No more on Murder's lurid face 
The insatiate hag shall gloat with drunken eye ! 45 
Manes of the unnumbered slain ! 
Ye that gasped on Warsaw's plain ! 
Ye that erst at Ismail's tower. 
When human ruin choked the streams, 

Fell in conquest's glutted hour, 50 

Mid women's shrieks and infants' screams ! 
Spirits of the uncoffined slain. 

Sudden blasts of triumph swelling. 
Oft, at night, in misty train. 

Rush around her narrow dwelling ! 55 

The exterminating fiend is fled — 

(Foul her life, and dark her doom) 
Mighty armies of the dead 

Dance, like death-fires, round her tomb ! 
Then with prophetic song relate, 6c 

Each some tyrant-murderer's fate ! 

IV 

Departing Year ! 'twas on no earthly shore 



(Due 67 

My soul beheld thy vision ! Where alone, 
Voiceless and stern, before the cloudy throne. 
Aye Memory sits : thy robe inscribed with gore, 65 
With many an unimaginable groan 

Thou storied'st thy sad hours ! Silence en- 
sued. 
Deep silence o'er the ethereal multitude. 
Whose locks with wreaths, whose wreaths with 
glories shone. 
Then, his eye wild ardours glancing, 70 

From the choired gods advancing. 
The Spirit of the Earth made reverence meet. 
And stood up, beautiful, before the cloudy seat. 



Throughout the blissful throng. 
Hushed were harp and song : 75 

Till wheeling round the throne the Lampads 
seven, 
(The mystic Words of Heaven) 
Permissive signal make : 
The fervent Spirit bowed, then spread his wings 
and spake ! 
' Thou in stormy blackness throning 80 

Love and uncreated Light, 
By the Earth's unsolaced groaning. 
Seize thy terrors, Arm of might ! 
By Peace with profFer'd insult scared, 



68 ^tlttt l^otm& of Coleriuge 

Masked hate and envying scorn ! 85 

By years of havoc yet unborn ! 
And Hunger's bosom to the frost-winds bared! 
But chief by Afric's wrongs, 

Strange, horrible, and foul ! 
By what deep guilt belongs 90 

To the deaf Synod, ' full of gifts and lies ! ' 
By Wealth's insensate laugh ! by Torture's 
howl ! 

Avenger, rise ! 
For ever shall the thankless Island scowl, 
Her quiver full, and with unbroken bow ? 95 
Speak! from thy storm-black Heaven, O speak 
aloud ! 

And on the darkling foe 
Open thine eye of fire from some uncertain 
cloud ! 
O dart the flash ! O rise and deal the blow ! 
The Past to thee, to thee the Future cries ! 100 
Hark ! how wide Nature joins her groans 
below ! 
Rise, God of Nature ! rise.' 

VI 

The voice had ceased, the vision fled ; 

Yet still I gasped and reeled with dread. 

And ever, when the dream of night 105] 

Renews the phantom to my sight, 



0tit 69 

Cold sweat-drops gather on my limbs ; 

My ears throb hot ; my eye-balls start ; 
My brain with horrid tumult swims ; 

Wild is the tempest of my heart; ,10 

And my thick and struggling breath 
Imitates the toil of death ! 
No stranger agony confounds 

The soldier on the war-field spread. 
When all foredone with toil and wounds, 1,5 

Death-like he dozes among heaps of dead ! 
(The strife is o'er, the day-light fled. 

And the night-wind clamours hoarse ! 
See ! the starting wretch's head 

Lies pillowed on a brother's corse !) lao 

VII 

Not yet enslaved, not wholly vile, 

O Albion ! O my mother Isle ! 

Thy vallies, fair as Eden's bowers, 

Glitter green with sunny showers ; 

Thy grassy uplands' gentle swells 1^5 

Echo to the bleat of flocks ; 
(Those grassy hills, those glittering dells 

Proudly ramparted with rocks) 
And Ocean mid his uproar wild 
Speaks safety to his Island-child ! 130 

Hence for many a fe.*,iess age 

Has social Quiet loved thy shore j 



70 Select DDorm0 of Coleriuge 

Nor ever proud invader's rage 
Or sacked thy towers, or stained thy fields with 
gore. 

VIII 

Abandon'd of Heaven ! mad Avarice thy 

guide, 13s 

At cowardly distance, yet kindling with pride — 
Mid thy herds and thy corn-fields secure thou 

hast stood. 
And join'd the wild yelling of Famine and 

Blood ! 
The nations curse thee ! They with eager 
wondering 
Shall hear Destruction, like a vulture, 

scream ! 140 

Strange-eyed Destruction ! who with many a 
dream 
Of central fires through nether seas up-thun- 
dering 
Soothes her fierce solitude; yet as she lies 
By livid fount, or red volcanic stream. 
If ever to her lidless dragon-eyes, 145 

O Albion ! thy predestined ruins rise. 
The fiend-hag on her perilous couch doth 

leap. 
Muttering distempered triumph in her charmed 
sleep. 



to ti)t Vit\^. (3toxQt Coleritige 71 

IX 

Away, my soul, away ! 
In vain, in vain the birds of warning 
sing— 150 

And hark ! I hear the famished brood of prey 
Flap their lank pennons on the groaning wind ! 
Away, my soul, away ! 
I unpartaking of the evil thing. 

With daily prayer and daily toil 155 

Soliciting for food my scanty soil. 
Have wailed my country with a loud La- 
ment. 
Now I recentre my immortal mind 

In the deep sabbath of meek self-content ; 
Cleansed from the vaporous passions that be- 
dim 160 
God's Image, sister of the Seraphim. 

TO THE 
REV. GEORGE COLERIDGE 

OF OTTERY ST. MARY, DEVON 

WITH SOME POEMS 

I79I-I797 

Notus in fratres animi paterni. 

HoR. Carm. lib. i, 2. 

A BLESSED lot hath he, who having passed 
His youth and early manhood in the stir 



72 S^elect }JDoem0 of Coleritge 

And turmoil of the world, retreats at length, 
With cares that move, not agitate the heart, 
To the same dwelling where his father dwelt ; 5 
And haply views his tottering little ones 
Embrace those aged knees and climb that lap. 
On which first kneeling his own infancy 
Lisped its brief prayer. Such, O my earliest 

friend ! 
Thy lot, and such thy brothers too enjoy. 10 

At distance did ye climb life's upland road. 
Yet cheered and cheering : now fraternal love 
Hath drawn you to one centre. Be your days 
Holy, and blest and blessing may ye live ! 

To me the Eternal Wisdom hath dispensed 15 
A different fortune and more different mind — 
Me from the spot where first I sprang to hght 
Too soon transplanted, ere my soul had fixed 
Its first domestic loves ; and hence through life 
Chasing chance-started friendships. A brief 

while 20 

Some have preserved me from life's pelting ills ; 
But, like a tree with leaves of feeble stem, 
If the clouds lasted, and a sudden breeze 
Ruffled the boughs, they on my head at once 
Dropped the collected shower; and some most 

false, 25 

False and fair-foliaged as the Manchineel, 



to tlje l^etj* George Colmtjge 73 

Have tempted me to slumber in their shade 
E'en mJd the storm ; then breathing subtlest 

damps, 
Mixed their own venom with the rain from 

Heaven, 
That I woke poisoned ! But, all praise to Him 30 
Who gives us all things, more have yielded me 
Permanent shelter ; and beside one friend, 
Beneath the impervious covert of one oak, 
I've raised a lowly shed, and know the names 
Of Husband and of Father ; not unhearing 35 

Of that divine and nightly-whispering voice, 
Which from my childhood to maturer years 
Spake to me of predestinated wreaths, 
Bright with no fading colours ! 

Yet at times 
My soul is sad, that I have roamed through 

life 40 

Still most a stranger, most with naked heart 
At mine own home and birth-place: chiefly 

then. 
When I remember thee, my earliest friend ! 
Thee, who didst watch my boyhood and my 

youth ; 
Didst trace my wanderings with a father's eye; 45 
And boding evil yet still hoping good. 
Rebuked each fault, and over all my woes 



74 ^tlttt l^omt& of Colmoge 

Sorrowed in silence ! He who counts alone 

The beatings of the solitary heart, 

That Being knows, how I have loved thee ever, 5© 

Loved as a brother, as a son revered thee ! 

Oh ! 'tis to me an ever new delight. 

To talk of thee and thine : or when the blast 

Of the shrill winter, rattling our rude sash, 

Endears the cleanly hearth and social bowl ; 55 

Or when as now, on some delicious eve. 

We in our sweet sequestered orchard-plot 

Sit on the tree crooked earth-ward; whose old 

boughs. 
That hang above us in an arborous roof, 
Stirred by the faint gale of departing May, 60 

Send their loose blossoms slanting o'er our 

heads ! 

Nor dost not thou sometimes recall those 
hours. 
When with the joy of hope thou gavest thine ear 
To my wild firstling-lays. Since then my song 
Hath sounded deeper notes, such as beseem 65 
Or that sad wisdom folly leaves behind. 
Or such as, tuned to these tumultuous times, 
Cope with the tempest's swell ! 

These various strains, 
Which I have framed in many a various mood. 



Mm!ii 75 

Accept, my Brother ! and (for some perchance 70 

Will strike discordant on thy milder mind) 

If aught of error or intemperate truth 

Should meet thine ear, think thou that riper age 

Will calm it down, and let thy love forgive it ! 

LINES TO W. LINLEY, ESQ. 

v^hile he sang a song to 
purcell's music 

1 797-1 800 

While my young cheek retains its healthful 
hues. 

And I have many friends who hold me dear, 

Linley ! methinks, I would not often hear 
Such melodies as thine, lest I should lose 
All memory of the wrongs and sore distress 5 

For which my miserable brethren weep ! 

But should uncomforted misfortunes steep 
My daily bread in tears and bitterness ; 
And if at death's dread moment I should lie 

With no beloved face at my bed-side, 10 

To fix the last glance of my closing eye, 

Methinks such strains, breathed by my angel- 
guide. 
Would make me pass the cup of anguish by. 

Mix with the blest, nor know that I had 
died ! 



76 Select l|Doem0 of Cotoiuge 

THE THREE GRAVES 

A FRAGMENT OF A SEXTON's TALE 

1 707-1 809 

[Part I — From MS.] 

Beneath this thorn when I was young, 
This thorn that blooms so sweet, 

We loved to stretch our lazy limbs 
In summer's noon-tide heat. 

And hither too the old man came, 5 

The maiden and her feer, 
' Then tell me, Sexton, tell me why 

The toad has harbour here. 

The Thorn is neither dry nor dead. 

But still it blossoms sweet ; 10 

Then tell me why all round its roots 
The dock and nettle meet. 

Why here the hemlock, etc. \_sic in MS.'\ 

Why these three graves all side by side, 

Beneath the flow'ry thorn, 15 

Stretch out their lengths so green and dark, 
By any foot unworn.' 



t^t t^ttt <Srat3eflf 77 

There, there a ruthless mother lies 

Beneath the flowery thorn ; 
And there a barren wife is laid, 20 

And there a maid forlorn. 

The barren wife and maid forlorn 

Did love each other dear ; 
The ruthless mother wrought the woe, 

And cost them many a tear. as 

Fair- Ellen was of serious mind. 

Her temper mild and even. 
And Mary, graceful as the fir 

That points the spire to heaven. 

Young Edward he to Mary said, 30 

' I would you were my bride,' 
And she was scarlet as he spoke. 

And turned her face to hide. 

'You know my mother she is rich, 

And you have little gear ; 35 

And go and if she say not Nay, 
Then I will be your feer.' 

Young Edward to the mother went. 

To him the mother said : 
' In truth you are a comely man ; 40 

You shall my daughter wed.' 



78 g)elect ^poem0 of Coleriuge 

[In Mary's joy fair Eleanor 

Did bear a sister's part ; 
For why, tho' not akin in blood, 

They sisters were in heart.] 45 

Small need to tell to any man 

That ever shed a tear 
What passed within the lover's heart 

The happy day so near. 

The mother, more than mother's use, 5° 

Rejoiced when they were by ; 
And all the ' course of wooing ' passed 

Beneath the mother's eye. 

And here within the flowering thorn 

How deep they drank of joy : 55 

The mother fed upon the sight. 

Nor . . . [sic in MS.'] 

[Part II — From MS.] 

And now the wedding day was fix'd, 

The wedding-ring was bought ; 
The wedding-cake with her own hand 6o 

The ruthless mother wrought. 

' And when to-morrow's sun shines forth 
The maid shall be a bride ' ; 



i:^t ®t)ree <3mtt& 79 

Thus Edward to the mother spake 

While she sate by his side. 65 

Alone they sate within the bower : 

The mother's colour fled, 
For Mary's foot was heard above — 

She decked the bridal bed. 

And when her foot was on the stairs 70 

To meet her at the door, 
With steady step the mother rose, 

And silent left the bower. 

She stood, her back against the door, 

And when her child drew near — 75 

' Away ! away ! ' the mother cried, 
* Ye shall not enter here. 

' Would ye come here, ye maiden vile. 

And rob me of my mate ? ' 
And on her child the mother scowled 80 

A deadly leer of hate. 

Fast rooted to the spot, you guess, 

The wretched maiden stood. 
As pale as any ghost of night 

That wanteth flesh and blood. 85 



8o g)elect l^otmfsi of ColeriDge 

She did not groan, she did not fall, 

She did not shed a tear, 
Nor did she cry, ' Oh ! mother, why 

May I not enter here ? * 

But wildly up the stairs she ran, 90 

As if her sense was fled. 
And then her trembling limbs she threw 

Upon the bridal bed. 

The mother she to Edward went 

Where he sate in the bower, 95 

And said, ' That woman is not fit 

To be your paramour. 

' She is my child — it makes my heart 

With grief and trouble swell ; 
I rue the hour I gave her birth, 100 

For never worse befel. 

' For she is fierce and she is proud. 

And of an envious mind ; 
A wily hypocrite she is. 

And giddy as the wind. 105 

' And if you go to church with her. 

You'll rue the bitter smart ; 
For she will wrong your marriage-bed, 

And she will break your heart. 



i 



t^t t\)ttt (5utt^ 8 1 

' Oh God, to think that I have shared no 

Her deadly sin so long j 
She is my child, and therefore I 

As mother held my tongue. 

' She is my child, I've risked for her 

My living soul's estate : 115 

I cannot say my daily prayers, 
The burthen is so great. 

' And she would scatter gold about 

Until her back was bare ; 
And should you swing for lust of hers 120 

In truth she'd little care.' 

Then in a softer tone she said. 

And took him by the hand : 
' Sweet Edward, for one kiss of your's 

I'd give my house and land. 125 

' And if you'll go to church with me. 

And take me for your bride, 
I'll make you heir of all I have — 

Nothing shall be denied.' 

Then Edward started from his seat, 130 

And he laughed loud and long — 

' In truth, good mother, you are mad, 
Or drunk with liquor strong.' 



82 ^tlttt l|Doem0 of Colmoge 

To him no word the mother said, 

But on her knee she fell, 135 

And fetched her breath while thrice your hand 

Might toll the passing-bell. 

' Thou daughter now above my head, 

Whom in my womb I bore, 
May every drop of thy heart's blood 140 

Be curst for ever more. 

' And cursed be the hour when first 

I heard thee wawl and cry ; 
And in the Church-yard cursed be 

The grave where thou shalt lie ! ' 145 

And Mary on the bridal-bed 

Her mother's curse had heard ; 
And while the cruel mother spake 

The bed beneath her stirred. 

In wrath young Edward left the hall, 150 

And turning round he sees 
The mother looking up to God 

And still upon her knees. 

Young Edward he to Mary went 

When on the bed she lay: 155 

' Sweet love, this is a wicked house — 

Sweet love, we must away.' 



He raised her from the bridal-bed, 

All pale and wan with fear ; 
' No Dog,' quoth he, ' if he were mine, 160 

No Dog would kennel here.' 

He led her from the bridal-bed. 
He led her from the stairs. 



The mother still was in the bower. 

And with a greedy heart 165 

She drank perdition on her knees. 

Which never may depart. 

But when their steps were heard below 

On God she did not call ; 
She did forget the God of Heaven, 170 

For they were in the hall. 

She started up — the servant maid 

Did see her when she rose ; 
And she has oft declared to me 

The blood within her froze. 175 

As Edward led his bride away 

And hurried to the door. 
The ruthless mother springing forth 

Stopped midway on the floor. 



84 Select ipormsf of ColmDge 

What did she mean ? What did she mean ? i8o 

For with a smile she cried : 
' Unblest ye shall not pass my door. 

The bride-groom and his bride. 

' Be blithe as lambs in April are, 

As flies when fruits are red ; 185 

May God forbid that thought of me 

Should haunt your marriage-bed. 

' And let the night be given to bliss, 

The day be given to glee : 
I am a woman weak and old, 190 

Why turn a thought on me ? 

' What can an aged mother do. 

And what have ye to dread ? 
A curse is wind, it hath no strength 

To haunt your marriage-bed.' '95 

When they were gone and out of sight 

She rent her hoary hair. 
And foamed like any Dog of June 

When sultry sunbeams glare. 

Now ask you why the barren wife, ^°° 

And why the maid forlorn, 
And why the ruthless mother lies 

Beneath the flowering thorn ? 



t^t t^ttt ^rabefif 85 

Three times, three times this spade of mine, 
In spite of bolt or bar, 205 

Did from beneath the belfry come, 
When spirits wandering are. 

And when the mother's soul to Hell 

By howling fiends was borne. 
This spade was seen to mark her grave 210 

Beneath the flowery thorn. 

And when the death-knock at the door 

Called home the maid forlorn. 
This spade was seen to mark her grave 

Beneath the flowery thorn. ai5 

And 'tis a fearful, fearful tree ; 

The ghosts that round it meet, 
'Tis they that cut the rind at night, 

Yet still it blossoms sweet. 



lEndofMS.'] 

Part III 

The grapes upon the Vicar's wall 
Were ripe as ripe could be ; 

And yellow leaves in sun and wind 
Were falling from the tree. 



86 Select iponn0 of Coleriuge 

On the hedge-elms in the narrow lane 

Still swung the spikes of corn : 2*5 

Dear Lord ! it seems but yesterday — 
Young Edward's marriage-morn. 

Up through that wood behind the church, 

There leads from Edward's door 
A mossy track, all over boughed, 23® 

For half a mile or more. 

And from their house-door by that track 
The bride and bridegroom went ; 

Sweet Mary, though she was not gay. 

Seemed cheerful and content. 235 

But when they to the church-yard came, 

I've heard poor Mary say. 
As soon as she stepped into the sun, 

Her heart it died away. 

And when the Vicar join'd their hands, Ho 

Her limbs did creep and freeze ; 
But when they prayed, she thought she saw 

Her mother on her knees. 

And o'er the church-path they returned — 
I saw poor Mary's back, ^45 

Just as she stepped beneath the boughs 
Into the mossy track. 



t^t ti)m ^ratjes; 87 

Her feet upon the mossy track 

The married maiden set : 
That moment — I have heard her say — 250 

She wished she could forget. 

The shade o'er-flushed her limbs with heat — 

Then came a chill like death : 
And when the merry bells rang out, 

They seemed to stop her breath. ^ss 

Beneath the foulest mother's curse 

No child could ever thrive : 
A mother is a mother still, 

The holiest thing alive. 

So five months passed : the mother still 260 

Would never heal the strife ; 
But Edward was a loving man, 

And Mary a fond wife. 

' My sister may not visit us. 

My mother says her nay : 265 

Edward ! you are all to me, 

1 wish for your sake I could be 

More lifesome and more gay. 

' I'm dull and sad ! indeed, indeed 

I know I have no reason ! 270 



88 ^rtect ipoem0 of ColeriDge 

Perhaps I am not well in health, 
And 'tis a gloomy season.' 

'Twas a drizzly time — no ice, no snow ! 

And on the few fine days 
She stirred not out, lest she might meet 275 

Her mother in the ways. 

But Ellen, spite of miry ways 

And weather dark and dreary, 
Trudged every day to Edward's house, 

And made them all more cheery. a8o' 

Oh ! Ellen was a faithful friend. 

More dear than any sister ! 
As cheerful too as singing lark ; 
And she ne'er left them till 'twas dark. 

And then they always missed her. 285 

And now Ash- Wednesday came — that day 

But few to church repair : 
For on that day you know we read 

The Commination prayer. 

Our late old Vicar, a kind man, 290 

Once, Sir, he said to me. 
He wished that service was clean out 

Of our good Liturgy. 



t^t t^ttt ^rabefif 89 

The mother walked into the church — 

To Ellen's seat she went : 295 

Though Ellen always kept her church 
All church-days during Lent. 

And gentle Ellen welcomed her 

With courteous looks and mild : 
Thought she, ' What if her heart should melt, 300 

And all be reconciled ! * 

The day was scarcely like a day — 

The clouds were black outright : 
And many a night, with half a moon, 

Tve seen the church more light. 305 

The wind was wild ; against the glass 

The rain did beat and bicker; 
The church-tower swinging over head. 

You scarce could hear the Vicar ! 

And then and there the mother knelt, 310 

And audibly she cried — 
' Oh ! may a clinging curse consume 

This woman by my side ! 

' O hear me, hear me. Lord in Heaven, 

Although you take my life — 
O curse this woman, at whose house 

Young Edward woo'd his wife. / 



90 ^tlttt p)nn0 of Coleritige 



1 



' By night and day, in bed and bower, 

O let her cursed be ! ! ! ' 
So having prayed, steady and slow, 320 

She rose up from her knee ! 
And left the church, nor e'er again 

The church-door entered she. 

I saw poor Ellen kneeling still. 

So pale ! I guessed not why : 3*5 

When she stood up, there plainly was 

A trouble in her eye. 

And when the prayers were done, we all 

Came round and asked her why : 
Giddy she seemed, and sure, there was 330 

A trouble in her eye. 

But ere she from the church-door stepped 

She smiled and told us why : 
' It was a wicked woman's curse,' 

Quoth she, ' and what care I ? ' 335 

She smiled, and smiled, and passed it off 

Ere from the door she stept — 
But all agree it would have been 

Much better had she wept. 

And if her heart was not at ease, 340 

This was her constant cry — 



' It was a wicked woman's curse — 
God's good, and what care I ? ' 

There was a hurry in her looks, 

Her struggles she redoubled : 345 

' It was a wicked woman's curse. 

And why should I be troubled ? ' 

These tears will come — I dandled her 

When 'twas the merest fairy — 
Good creature ! and she hid it all : 35° 

She told it not to Mary. 

But Mary heard the tale : her arms 

Round Ellen's neck she threw ; 
' O Ellen, Ellen, she cursed me, 

And now she hath cursed you ! ' ^^^ 

I saw young Edward by himself 

Stalk fast adown the lee. 
He snatched a stick from every fence, 

A twig from every tree. 

He snapped them still with hand or knee, 360 

And then away they flew ! 
As if with his uneasy limbs 

He knew not what to do ! 



92 g^elect iponttfi! of Coleriuge 

You see, good sir ! that single hill ? 

His farm lies underneath : 365 

He heard it there, he heard it all, 

And only gnashed his teeth. 

Now Ellen was a darling love ^ 

In all his joys and cares : 
And Ellen's name and Mary's name 370 

Fast-linked they both together came, 

Whene'er he said his prayers. 

And in the moment of his prayers 

He loved them both alike : 
Yea, both sweet names with one sweet joy 375 

Upon his heart did strike ! 

He reach'd his home, and by his looks 

They saw his inward strife : 
And they clung round him with their arms, 

Both Ellen and his wife. 380 

And Mary could not check her tears, 

So on his breast she bowed ; 
Then frenzy melted into grief. 

And Edward wept aloud. 

Dear Ellen did not weep at all, 385 

But closelier did she cling, 



t\)t ti)ttt ^tabesf 93 

And turned her face and looked as if 
She saw some frightful thing. 

Part IV 

To see a man tread over graves 

I hold it no good mark ; 39® 

'Tis wicked in the sun and moon, 

And bad luck in the dark ! 

You see that grave ? The Lord he gives, 

The Lord, he takes away : 
O Sir ! the child of my old age 395 

Lies there as cold as clay. 

Except that grave, you scarce see one 

That was not dug by me ; 
Vd rather dance upon 'em all 

Than tread upon these three ! 400 

' Aye, Sexton ! 'tis a touching tale.' 

You, Sir ! are but a lad ; 
This month Tm in my seventieth year, 

And still it makes me sad. 

And Mary's sister told it me, 405 

For three good hours and more ; 
Though I had heard it, in the main, 

From Edward's self, before. 



94 Select UDoemsf of Coleriuge 

Well ! it passed off! the gentle Ellen 

Did well nigh dote on Mary ; 410 

And she went oftener than before, 
And Mary loved her more and more : 
She managed all the dairy. 

To market she on market-days, 

To church on Sundays came ; 415 

All seemed the same : all seemed so, Sir ! 

But all was not the same ! 

Had Ellen lost her mirth ? Oh ! no ! 

But she was seldom cheerful ; 
And Edward look'd as if he thought 42° 

That Ellen's mirth was fearful. 

When by herself, she to herself 

Must sing some merry rhyme ; 
She could not now be glad for hours, 

Yet silent all the time. 425 

And when she soothed her friend, through all 

Her soothing words 'twas plain 
She had a sore grief of her own, 

A haunting in her brain. 

And oft she said, I'm not grown thin ! 430 

And then her wrist she spanned j 






t^t t^ttt (5U^t& 95 

And once when Mary was down-cast, 

She took her by the hand, 
And gazed upon her, and at first 

She gently pressed her hand ; 435 

Then harder, till her grasp at length 

Did gripe like a convulsion ! 
' Alas ! ' said she, ' we ne'er can be 

Made happy by compulsion ! ' 

And once her both arms suddenly 44° 

Round Mary's neck she flung. 
And her heart panted, and she felt 

The words upon her tongue. 

She felt them coming, but no power 

Had she the words to smother ; 445 

And with a kind of shriek she cried, 

' Oh Christ ! you're like your mother ! ' 

So gentle Ellen now no more 

Could make this sad house cheery j 

And Mary's melancholy ways 45° 

Drove Edward wild and weary. 

Lingering he raised his latch at eve, 

Though tired in heart and limb : 
He loved no other place, and yet 

Home was no home to him. 455 



96 Select ^poemsf of CoUriUge 

One evening he took up a book, 

And nothing in it read ; 
Then flung it down, and groaning cried, 

' O ! Heaven ! that I were dead.' 

Mary looked up into his face, 460 

And nothing to him said ; 
She tried to smile, and on his arm 

Mournfully leaned her head. 

And he burst into tears, and fell 

Upon his knees in prayer : 465 

' Her heart is broke ! O God ! my grief, 

It is too great to bear ! ' 

'Twas such a foggy time as makes 

Old sextons, Sir ! Hke me. 
Rest on their spades to cough ; the spring 470 

Was late uncommonly. 

And then the hot days, all at once, 

They came, we knew not how : 
You looked about for shade, when scarce 

A leaf was on a bough. 475 

It happened then ('twas in the bower, 

A furlong up the wood : 
Perhaps you know the place, and yet 

I scarce know how you should,) 



No path leads thither, *tis not nigh 480 

To any pasture-plot ; 
But clustered near the chattering brook, 

Lone hollies marked the spot. 

Those hollies of themselves a shape 

As of an arbour took, 485 

A close, round arbour ; and it stands 
Not three strides from a brook. 

Within this arbour, which was still 

With scarlet berftes hung. 
Were these three friends, one Sunday morn, 490 

Just as the first bell rung. 

'Tis sweet to hear a brook, 'tis sweet 

To hear the Sabbath-bell, 
'Tis sweet to hear them both at once, 

Deep in a woody dell. 495 

His limbs along the moss, his head 

Upon a mossy heap. 
With shut-up senses, Edward lay : 
That brook e'en on a working day 

Might chatter one to sleep. 500 

And he had passed a restless night. 
And was not well in health j 



98 ^tlttt potmisi of ColmDge 

The women sat down by his side, 
And talked as 'twere by stealth. 

' The Sun peeps through the close thick leaves, 
See, dearest Ellen ! see ! 506 

'Tis in the leaves, a little sun. 
No bigger than your ee ; 

' A tiny sun, and it has got 

A perfect glory too ; 510 

Ten thousand threads and hairs of light. 
Make up a glory gay and bright 

Round that small orb, so blue.' 

And then they argued of those rays. 

What colour they might be ; 515 

Says this, ' They're mostly green' ; says that, 
' They're amber-like to me.' 

So they sat chatting, while bad thoughts 

Were troubling Edward's rest ; 
But soon they heard his hard quick pants, 520 

And the thumping in his breast. 

' A mother too ! ' these self-same words 

Did Edward mutter plain ; 
His face was drawn back on itself. 

With horror and huge pain. 525 



Both groan'd at once, for both knew well 
What thoughts were in his mind ; 

When he waked up, and stared like one 
That hath been just struck blind. 

He sat upright ; and ere the dream 530 

Had had time to depart, 
' O God, forgive me ! ' (he exclaimed) 

' I have torn out her heart.* 

Then Ellen shrieked, and forthwith burst 

Into ungentle laughter; 535 

And Mary shivered, where she sat. 
And never she smiled after. 



THIS LIME-TREE BOWER MY 
PRISON 

ADDRESSED TO CHARLES LAMB, OF THE INDIA 
HOUSE, LONDON 

1 797-1 800 
In the June of 1797 some long-expected friends paid 
a visit to the author's cottage; and on the morning of 
their arrival, he met with an accident, which disabled 
him from walking during the whole time of their stay. 
One evening, when they had left him for a few hours, he 
composed the following lines in the garden-bower. 

Well, they are gone, and here must I remain. 
This lime-tree bower my prison ! I have lost 

L.qFC. 



100 g)elect l^otm& of Coleriuge 

Beauties and feelings, such as would have been 
Most sweet to my remembrance even when age 
Had dimmed mine eyes to blindness ! They, 

meanwhile, 5 

Friends, whom I never more may meet again. 
On springy heath, along the hill-top edge, 
Wander in gladness, and wind down, perchance, 
To that still roaring dell, of which I told ; 
The roaring dell, o'erwooded, narrow, deep, lo 
And only speckled by the mid-day sun ; 
Where its slim trunk the ash from rock to 

rock 
Flings arching like a bridge ; — that branchless 

ash. 
Unsunned and damp, whose few poor yellow 

leaves 
Ne'er tremble in the gale, yet tremble still, 15 

Fanned by the water-fall ! and there my friends 
Behold the dark green file of long lank weeds. 
That all at once (a most fantastic sight !) 
Still nod and drip beneath the dripping edge 
Of the blue-clay stone. 

Now, my friends emerge 20 
Beneath the wide wide Heaven — and view 

again 
The many-steepled tract magnificent 
Of hilly fields and meadows, and the sea, 



tU^ ^imt^tttt )15otDer m^ ^jDrfeon loi 

With some fair bark, perhaps, whose sails light 

up 
The slip of smooth clear blue betwixt two 

Isles 25 

Of purple shadow ! Yes ! they wander on 
In gladness all ; but thou, methinks, most glad, 
My gentle-hearted Charles ! for thou hast pined 
And hungered after Nature, many a year, 
In the great City pent, winning thy way 30 

With sad yet patient soul, through evil and pain 
And strange calamity ! Ah ! slowly sink 
Behind the western ridge, thou glorious Sun ! 
Shine in the slant beams of the sinking orb. 
Ye purple heath-flowers ! richlier burn, ye 

clouds ! 35 

Live in the yellow light, ye distant groves ! 
And kindle, thou blue Ocean ! So my friend 
Struck with deep joy may stand, as I have 

stood. 
Silent with swimming sense ; yea, gazing round 
On the wide landscape, gaze till all doth seem 40 
Less gross than bodily ; and of such hues 
As veil the Almighty Spirit, when yet he makes 
Spirits perceive his presence. 

A delight 
Comes sudden on my heart, and I am glad 
As I myself were there ! Nor in this bower, 45 
This little lime-tree bower, have I not marked 



I o 2 §>elect ipoentfif of CoUriDge 

Much that has soothed me. Pale beneath the 

blaze 
Hung the transparent foliage ; and I watched 
Some broad and sunny leaf, and loved to see 
The shadow of the leaf and stem above, 50 

Dappling its sunshine ! And that walnut-tree 
Was richly tinged, and a deep radiance lay 
Full on the ancient ivy, which usurps 
Those fronting elms, and now, with blackest 

grass 
Makes their dark branches gleam a lighter hue 55 
Through the late twilight : and though now the 

bat 
Wheels silent by, and not a swallow twitters, 
Yet still the solitary humble-bee 
Sings in the bean-flower ! Henceforth I shall 

know 
That Nature ne'er deserts the wise and pure ; 60 
No plot so narrow, be but Nature there. 
No waste so vacant, but may well employ 
Each faculty of sense, and keep the heart 
Awake to Love and Beauty ! and sometimes 
'Tis well to be bereft of promised good, 65 

That we may lift the soul, and contemplate 
With lively joy the joys we cannot share. 
My gentle-hearted Charles ! when the last rook 
Beat its straight path along the dusky air 
Homewards, I blest it ! deeming, its black wing 70 



iFire, ifaminet anD g>laugl^ter 103 

(Now a dim speck, now vanishing in light) 
Had cross'd the mighty orb's dilated glory, 
While thou stood'st gazing ; or when all was 

still. 
Flew creeking o'er thy head, and had a charm 
For thee, my gentle-hearted Charles, to whom 75 
No sound is dissonant which tells of Life. 



FIRE, FAMINE, AND SLAUGHTER 

A WAR ECLOGUE 

1 797-1 798 

TAe Scene a desolated Tract in La Vendee. Famine is 
disco'vered lying on the ground ,• to her enter Fire and 
Slaughter. 

Fam. Sisters ! sisters ! who sent you here ? 

Slau. \to Fire'] , I will whisper it in her ear. 

Fire. No ! no ! no ! 
Spirits hear what spirits tell : 
'Twill make an holiday in Hell. 

No ! no ! no ! 
Myself, I named him once below. 
And all the souls, that damned be. 
Leaped up at once in anarchy. 
Clapped their hands and danced for glee. 
They no longer heeded me ; 
But laughed to hear Hell's burning rafters 
Unwillingly re-echo laughters ! 



104 Select ponttfl! of ColeriDgt 

No ! no ! no ! 
Spirits hear what spirits tell : 15 

'Twill make an holiday in Hell ! 

Fam. Whisper it, sister ! so and so ! 
In a dark hint, soft and slow. 

Slau. Letters four do form his name — 
And who sent you ? 

Both, The same ! the same ! 20 

Slau. He came by stealth, and unlocked my 
den. 
And I have drunk the blood since then 
Of thrice three hundred thousand men. 

Both, Who bade you do 't ? 

Slau, The same ! the same ! 

Letters four do form his name. 25 

He let me loose, and cried Halloo ! 
To him alone the praise is due. 

Fam. Thanks, sister, thanks ! the men have 
bled. 
Their wives and their children faint for bread. 
I stood in a swampy field of battle ; 30 

With bones and skulls I made a rattle. 
To frighten the wolf and carrion-crow 
And the homeless dog — but they would not 

go. 
So off Lflew : for how could I bear 
To see them gorge their dainty fare ? 35 

I heard a groan and a peevish squall. 



iFire, iFaminet anti §)laugt)ter 105 

And through the chink of a cottage-wall — 
Can you guess what I saw there ? 

Both. Whisper it, sister ! in our ear. 

Fam. A baby beat its dying mother : 40 

I had starved the one and was starving the 
other ! 

Both. Who bade you do't ? 

Fam, The same ! the same ! 

Letters four do form his name. 
He let me loose, and cried. Halloo ! 
To him alone the praise is due. 45 

Fire. Sisters ! I from Ireland came ! 
Hedge and corn-fields all on flame, 
I triumph'd o'er the setting sun ! 
And all the while the work was done, 
On as I strode with my huge strides, 5° 

I flung back my head and I held my sides, 
It was so rare a piece of fun 
To see the sweltered cattle run 
With uncouth gallop through the night. 
Scared by the red and noisy light! 55 

By the light of his own blazing cot 
Was many a naked Rebel shot : 
The house-stream met the flame and hissed. 
While crash ! fell in the roof, I wist, 
On some of those old bed-rid nurses, 60 

That deal in discontent and curses. 

Both. Who bade you do't ? 



1 06 &t\ta l^otm^ of ColeriDge 

Fire. The same ! the same ! 

Letters four do form his name. 
He let me loose, and cried Halloo ! 
To him alone the praise is due. 65 

Jil. He let us loose, and cried Halloo ! 
How shall we yield him honour due ? 

Fam. Wisdom comes with lack of food, 
ril gnaw, I'll gnaw the multitude. 
Till the cup of rage o'erbrim : 7° 

They shall seize him and his brood — 

Slau, They shall tear him limb from limb ! 

Fire. O thankless beldames and untrue ! 
And is this all that you can do 
For him, who did so much for you ? 75 

Ninety months he, by my troth ! 
Hath richly catered for you both ; 
And in an hour would you repay 
An eight years' work ? — Away ! away ! 
I alone am faithful ! I 80 

Cling to him everlastingly. 

KUBLA KHAN 

1797,8-1816 
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan 
A stately pleasure-dome decree : 
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran 
Through caverns measureless to man 



Mblai^iian 107 

Down to a sunless sea. 5 

So twice five miles of fertile ground 
With walls and towers were girdled round : 
And here were gardens bright with sinuous 

rills, 
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree ; 
And here were forests ancient as the hills, 10 

Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. 

But oh ! that deep romantic chasm which slanted 

Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover! 

A savage place ! as holy and enchanted 

As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted 15 

By woman wailing for her demon-lover ! 

And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil 

seething. 
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breath- 
ing. 
A mighty fountain momently was forced : 
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst 20 

Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail. 
Or chafFy grain beneath the thresher's flail : 
And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever 
It flung up momently the sacred river. 
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion 25 

Through wood and dale the sacred river ran. 
Then reached the caverns measureless to man. 
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean : 



io8 ^tittt IJDonnfif of Coleridge 

And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far 
Ancestral voices prophesying war ! 30 

The shadow of the dome of pleasure 

Floated midway on the waves ; 

Where was heard the mingled measure 

From the fountain and the caves. 
It was a miracle of rare device, 35 

A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice ! 

A damsel with a dulcimer 

In a vision once I saw : 

It was an Abyssinian maid, 

And on her dulcimer she played, 40 

Singing of Mount Abora. 

Could I revive within me 

Her symphony and song, 

To such a deep delight 'twould win me, 
That with music loud and long, 45 

I would build that dome in air. 
That sunny dome ! those caves of ice ! 
And all who heard should see them there, 
And all should cry, Beware ! Beware ! 
His flashing eyes, his floating hair ! 50 

Weave a circle round him thrice. 
And close your eyes with holy dread, 
For he on honey-dew hath fed. 
And drunk the milk of Paradise. 



\ 
t^t }^mt of tlie 2intimt Mariner 109 

THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT 
MARINER 

IN SEVEN PARTS 
1797,8-1798 

Facile credo, plures esse Naturas invisibiles quam visibiles in rerum 
universitate. Sed horum omnium familiam quis nobis enarrabit ? et 
gradus et cognationes et discrimina et singulorum munera ? Quid 
agunt ? quae loca habitant ? Harum rerum notitiam semper ambivit 
ingenium humanum, nunquam attigit. Juvat, interea, non diffiteor, 
quandoque in animo, tanquam in tabula, majoris et melioris mundi 
imaginem contemplari : ne mens assuefacta hodiernae vitae minutiis 
se contrabat nimis, et tota subsidat in pusillas cogitationes. Sed veri- 
tati interea invigilandum est, modusque servandus, ut certa ab incertis, 
diem a nocte, distinguamus. — T. Burnet, Archaol. Phil. p. 68. 

ARGUMENT 

How a Ship having passed the Line was driven by storms 
to the cold Country towards the South Pole j and how 
from thence she made her course to the tropical Latitude 
of the Great Pacific Ocean j and of the strange things that 
befell ; and in what manner the Ancyent Marinere came 
back to his own Country. [1798.] 

PART I 

It is an ancient Mariner, An ancient 

And he stoppeth one of three. meeteth 

' By thy long grey beard and glittering eye, three Gai- 
Now wherefore stopp'st thou me .? ^^"^^ ^^^' , 

^ ^ den to a wed- 

ding-feast. 

The Bridegroom's doors are opened wide, ^^^ detain- 
And I am next of kin j "'^ °"^- 



1 10 Select Ij^otmsi of ColeriDge 

The guests are met, the feast is set : 
May'st hear the merry din.' 

He holds him with his skinny hand, 
' There was a ship,' quoth he. lo 

' Hold off! unhand me, grey-beard loon ! ' 
Eftsoons his hand dropt he. 

The Wed- He holds him with his glittering eye — 
ding-Guest ^he Wedding-Guest stood still, 

IS spell- . o ' 

bound by And listens like a three years' child : 15 
the eye of The Mariner hath his will. 

the old sea- 
faring man, 

and con- The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone : 

strained to fjg cannot choose but hear ; 

And thus spake on that ancient man, 
The bright-eyed Mariner. 20 



hear his tale. 



' The ship was cheered, the harbour 

cleared. 
Merrily did we drop 
Below the kirk, below the hill. 
Below the lighthouse top. 

The Man- yj^g ^^^^ came up upon the left, 

nertellshow *^ ^ ' 

the ship Uut ot the sea came he ! 

sailed south- And he shone bright, and on the right 

rgooTi^LdWent down into the sea. 

and fair weather, till it reached the line. 



t^t Mmt of tlje ancient partner 1 1 1 

Higher and higher every day, 

Till over the mast at noon — ' 30 

The Wedding-Guest here beat his 

breast, 
For he heard the loud bassoon. 

The bride hath paced into the hall. The Wed- 

Red as a rose is she ; h'"^"^"!!' 

Nodding their heads before her goes bridal 35 

The merry minstrelsy. music ; but 

the Mariner 

The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast, his tale. 

Yet he cannot choose but hear; 

And thus spake on that ancient man, 

Thp bright-eyed Mariner. 40 

< And now the Storm-blast came, and he The ship 
Was tyrannous and strong : ^"^^" ^y ^ 

He struck with his overtaking wings, toward the 
And chased us south along. south pole. 

With sloping masts and dipping prow, 45 

As who pursued with yell and blow 

Still treads the shadow of his foe. 

And forward bends his head. 

The ship drove fast, loud roared the 

blast. 
And southward aye we fled. 5° 



1 1 2 Select jpoem^ of Coleritige 

And now there came both mist and 

snow, 
And it grew wondrous cold : 
And ice, mast-high, came floating by, 
As green as emerald. 

ThekndofAnd through the drifts the snowy 

frarfu?"^"^ cliftS 55 

sounds Di<i send a dismal sheen : 
where no Nor shapcs of men nor beasts we ken — 
living thing ^j^ • ^jj between. 

was to be 
seen. 

The ice was here, the ice was there, 
The ice was all around : 60 

It cracked and growled, and roared 

and howled. 
Like noises in a swound ! 



Till a great At length did cross an Albatross, 
^^^"^j""^' Thorough the fog it came; 
Albatross, As if it had been a Christian soul, 65 

came We hailed it in God's name. 

through the 
snow-fog, 

and was re- It ate the food it ne'er had eat, 

"ilf-o"^"^ And round and round it flew. 

and hospi- The ice did split with a thunder- 

tality. fit ; 

The helmsman steered us through ! 70 



t^t ^imt of tlje ancient partner 1 1 3 

And a good south wind sprung up be- And lo ! the 

hind ; Albatross 

The Albatross did follow, birTof'good 

And every day, for food or play, omen, and 

Came to the mariner's hollo ! ^f "^IJf^^ 

the ship as 
it returned 

In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud, northward 75 
It perched for vespers nine ; ^Tflttbg 

Whiles all the night, through fog-ke. 

smoke white, 
Glimmered the white moon-shine.* 

' God save thee, ancient Mariner ! -pjjg ancient 

From the fiends, that plague thee Mariner in- 

thus ! hospitably g^ 

Why look'st thou so?' — With my pio^s bird of 

cross-bow good omen. 

I shot the Albatross. 

PART II 

The Sun now rose upon the right : 

Out of the sea came he. 

Still hid in mist, and on the left 85 

Went down into the sea. 

And the good south wind still blew 

behind. 
But no sweet bird did follow. 



1 14 Select ^jDoem0 of Coleritige 

Nor any day for food or play 

Came to the mariners' hollo ! 90 

His ship- And I had done a hellish thing, 

the ancient For all averred, I had killed the bird 
Mariner, That made the breeze to blow, 
the bird"of ^^ wretch ! said they, the bird to slay, 95 
good luck. That made the breeze to blow ! 

But when Nor dim nor red, like God's own head, 

dear^rioff, The gloHous Sun uprist : 

they justify Then all averred, I had killed the 

the same, bird 

makfthem-That brought the fog and mist. 100 

selves ac- 'Twas right, said they, such birds to 

complices in slav 

the crime, ^t^, i • i r i 

1 hat brmg the fog and mist. 
The fair 'Yhe fair breeze blew, the white foam 

breeze con- ' 

tinues; the fleW, 

ship enters The furrow followed free ; 

Ocean "^'and ^^ ^^^^ ^^^ ^^^^ ^^^^ ^^^^ ^^^^t 105 

sails north- Into that silent sea. 

ward, even 

the Line. Down dfopt the breczc, the sails dropt 

The ship down, 

I'uddeniy" 'Twas sad as sad could be ; 

becalmed. 






tf^t li^mt of tlje ^ntimt Mariner 1 1 5 

And we did speak only to break 

The silence of the sea ! no 

All in a hot and copper sky, 
The bloody Sun, at noon. 
Right up above the mast did stand,, 
No bigger than the Moon. 

Day after day, day after day, *'5 

We stuck, nor breath nor motion ; 
As idle as a painted ship 
Upon a painted ocean. 



nk 



Water, water, every where. 
And all the boards did shrin 
Water, water, every where 
Nor any drop to drink. 

The very deep did rot : O Christ ! 

That ever this should be ! 

Yea, slimy things did crawl with 

legs 
Upon the slimy sea. 

About, about, in reel and rout 
The death-fires danced at night ; 
The water, like a witch's oils. 
Burnt green, and blue and white. 



And the 
Albatross j 
begins to be 
avenged. 



125 



130 



1 1 6 g)elect ipoems? of Coletiuge 

A Spirit And some in dreams assured were 
hadfollowed Of the Spirit that plagued us so 
of the'invisi- Nine fathom deep he had followed us 
bie inhabi- From the land of mist and snow. 

tants of this 

neither de- And ev^ry tonguc, through utter drought, 
parted souls Was withered at the root ; 136 

nor angels ; ^^ ^^^j^ ^^^ speak, no more than if 

concerning ^ ' 

whom the We had been choked with soot. 

learnedjew, 

Josephus j^^ J ^^11 ^_^ , ^^^^ g^ii iQQjj.g 

and the Pla- i t r 11 

tonic Con- Had 1 from old and young ! 140 

stantinopoii- Instead of the cross, the Albatross 
chaei^'sd- About my neck was hung. 

lus, may be consulted. They are very numerous, and there is no 
climate or element without one or more. 

PART III 

The ship- There passed a weary time. Each 

TeKore ^^^""^^ 

distress, Was parched, and glazed each eye. 
would fain A weary time ! a weary time ! 145 

whofe^Ut How glazed each weary eye, 
on the an- When looking westward, I beheld 
cientMarl- j^ something in the sky. 

ner : in sign ° 

whereof they hang the dead sea-bird round his neck. 

The ancient At first it Seemed a little speck, 
hJJeXa^" And then it seemed a mist; 150 

sign in the element afar off. 



t\)t }Ximt of tt)e aintient farmer 1 1 7 

It moved and moved, and took at last 
A certain shape, I wist. 

A: speck, a mist, a shape, I wist ! 

And still it neared and neared : 

As if it dodged a water-sprite, '55 

It plunged and tacked and veered. 

With throats unslaked, with black lips At its nearer 

baked, approach, it 

We could nor laugh nor wail ; him to be a 

Through utter drought all dumb we ship ; and at 

stood! a dear ran- 

som he 

I bit my arm, I sucked the blood, freeth his i6o 

And cried, A sail ! a sail ! speech from 

the bonds 
of thirst. 

With throats unslaked, with black lips 

baked. 
Agape they heard me call: 
Gramercy ! they for joy did grin, a flash of 

And all at once their breath drew in, J°yj 165 

As they were drinking all. 

And horror 

See ! see ! (I cried) she tacks no follows. 

more! For can it 

Hither to work us weal ; th^t comes 

Without a breeze, without a tide, onward 

She steadies with upright keel ! "^^^^^ 170 

tide ? 



1 1 8 g^elect ipoems; of Coleriuge 

The western wave was all a-flame. 
The day was well nigh done ! 
Almost upon the western wave 
Rested the broad bright Sun ; 
When that strange shape drove sud- 
denly 175 
Betwixt us and the Sun. 

It seemeth And Straight the Sun was flecked with 

him but the 1 

skeleton of °^^^' , , ^ 

a ship. (Heaven's Mother send us grace ! ) 

As if through a dungeon-grate he 

peered 
With broad and burning face. i8o 

Alas ! (thought I, and my heart beat 

loud) 
How fast she nears and nears ! 
Are those her sails that glance in the Sun, 
Like restless gossameres ? 

are seen as ^ ^^^ thosc her ribs through which the 

bars on the Sun 185 

face of the Qj^j g- as through a p-rate? 

setting Sun. . .\ ' ^,, ° „*= , 

The Spec- And IS that Woman all her crew .'' 
tre-Woman Is that 3. Death .? and are there two ? 
??'*i^'" , Is Death that woman's mate .? 

Death-mate, 

and no other on board the skeleton-ship. 



t^t IXimt of ttje ancient spanner 1 1 9 



Her lips were red, her looks were free, 
Her locks were yellow as gold : 
Her skin was as white as leprosy. 
The Nightmare Life-in-Death was she, 
Who thicks man's blood with cold. 



Like vessel, 
like crew ! , 



Death and 
Life-in- 
Death have '95 
diced for the 
YyQ ship's crew, 
and she (the 
latter) win- 
neth the 
ancient 
Mariner. 

rim dips ; the stars rush No twilight 

within the 
courts of the 
Sun. 200 



The naked hulk alongside came. 
And the twain were casting dice ; 
'The game is done ! I've won ! 

won ! ' 
Quoth she, and whistles thrice. 



The 



Sun's 
out : 
At one stride comes the dark; 
With far-heard whisper, o'er the sea, 
OfF shot the spectre-bark,. 

We listened and looked sideways up ! 

Fear at my heart, as at a cup, 

My life-blood seemed to sip ! 

The stars were dim, and thick the night, 

The steersman's face by his lamp 

gleamed white ; 
From the sails the dew did drip — 
Till clomb above the eastern bar 
The horned Moon, with one bright star 
Within the nether tip. 



At the ris- 
ing of the 
Moon, 



205 



1 20 g>rlm p3nn0 of ColeriDge 

One after One after one, by the star-dogged 

another, Moon, 

Too quick for groan or sigh, 

Each turned his face with a ghastly 

pang, 
And cursed me with his eye. 215 

His ship- Four times fifty living men, 
mates drop /^^^^ j j^^^j.^ j^^j. gj }^ ^or groan) 

down dead. V ^ rr i i 

With heavy thump, a lifeless lump, 
They dropped down one by one. 

But Life-in- The souls did from their bodies fly, — 220 

Death be- j^. ^^j ^^ ^jj^g ^^ ^^^ , 
gins her / 

work on the And every soul, it passed me by, 
ancient Like the whizz of my cross-bow ! 

Mariner. 

PART IV 

The Wed- c J fear thee, ancient Mariner ! 
fZAri I f^^' thy skinny hand! «s 

a Spirit is And thou art long, and lank, and brown, 
talking to As is the ribbed sea-sand. 

him ; 

But I fear thee and thy glittering eye, 

MarbeT"' ^"^ ^^Y ^^^""7 ^^^^^ ^o brown.' — 
assureth Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding- 

himofhis Guest ! 230 

and pro-^' ^^^^ hodj dropt not down. 

ceedeth to relate his horrible penance. 



t^t Mmt of tlie 3incient partner 1 2 1 

Alone, alone, all, all alone. 

Alone on a wide wide sea! 

And never a saint took pity on 

My soul in agony. 435 

The many men, so beautiful ! He despis- 

And they all dead did lie : ^^^ '^^ 

And a thousand thousand slimy things of^thr^lm. 
Lived on ; and so did I. 

I looked upon the rotting sea, Andenvieth 

And drew my eyes away ; hould Sve ^^^ 

I looked upon the rotting deck, and so many 

And there the dead men lay. lie dead. 

I looked to heaven, and tried to pray; 

But or ever a prayer had gusht, a45 

A wicked whisper came, and made 

My heart as dry as dust. 

I closed my lids, and kept them close. 

And the balls like pulses beat j 

For the sky and the sea, and the sea 

and the sky as© 

Lay like a load on my weary eye. 
And the dead were at my feet. 

The cold sweat melted from their limbs, ^"^ ^}?^ . 

' curse livetn 

Nor rot nor reek did they : for him in 

the eye of the dead men. 



122 ^tltct jpoemsf of ColertDge 

The look with which they looked on 
me 



Has never passed away. 



^55 



An orphan's curse would drag to hell 

A spirit from on high ; 

But oh ! more horrible than that 

Is a curse in a dead man's eye ! 260 

Seven days, seven nights, I saw that 

curse. 
And yet I could not die. 

In his lone- ^r^, • t» /r 11 

liness and ^ he movmg Moon went up the sky, 
fixedness he And no where did abide : 
?:rdfd>c Softly she was going up, .65 

journeying And a Star or two beside — 

Moon, and 

that^tm ^^^ beams bemocked the sultry main, 
sojourn, yet Like April hoar-frost spread ; 
stiu move g^^ ^here the ship's huge shadow lay, 
and every T*^^ charmed water burnt alway 270 

where the A Still and awful red. 

blue sky 

them, and Beyond the shadow of the ship, 

is their ap- J watched the water-snakes : 

anlTtheir^^*^' They moved in tracks of shining white, 

native country and their own natural homes, which they enter unan- 
nounced, as lords that are certainly expected and yet there is a silent 
joy at their arrival. • 



il)e JXimt of t\)t ancinxt Mariner 1 23 

And when they reared, the elfish light 275 

Fell ofF in hoary flakes. 

Within the shadow of the ship By the light 

I watched their rich attire : ?^^^^ , 

11111 Moon he 

Blue, glossy green, and velvet black, behoideth 

God's ere; 
tures of th 
great calm. 



They coiled and swam ; and every God's crea- 

1 tures of the . 

track „._, _,„ 280 



V_ flash of golden fire. 

O happy living things ! no tongue Their 

Their beauty might declare : ^f "^ '"^ 

{ D their happi- 

A spnng of love gushed from my heart, ness. 

And I blessed them unaware: He biesseth^^S 

Sure my kind saint took pity on me, Jj^^"^ '^ ^^^ 
And I blessed them unaware. 

The selfsame moment I could pray ; The speU 

And from my neck so free ^"J^' '° 
The Albatross fell off, and sank ' ^9° 

Like lead into the sea. 



-J 



PART V 



Oh sleep ! it is a gentle thing, ^ 

Beloved from pole to pole ! 

To Mary Queen the praise be given ! 

She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven, ^95 

That sUd into my soul. 



124 g>elect l^otm& of ColeriDge 

By grace of The silly buckcts on the deck, 
MotSthe'^^^^ had so long remained, 
ancient ' I dreamt that they were filled with dew ; 
Mariner And when I awokc, it rained. 300 

is refreshed 
with rain. 

My lips were wet, my throat was cold. 
My garments all were dank ; 
Sure I had drunken in my dreams. 
And still my body drank. 

I moved, and could not feel my limbs : 
I was so light — almost 306 

I thought that I had died in sleep. 
And was a blessed ghost. 

He heareth And soon I heard a roaring wind : 
rhXeI'd'dnotcomeanear; 3.0 

sights and But with its sound it shook the sails, 
commotions That were so thin and sere. 

in the sky 
and the ele- 
ment. The upper air burst into life ! 

And a hundred fire-flags sheen. 

To and fro they were hurried about ! 315 

And to and fro, and in and out. 

The wan stars danced between. 



And the coming wind did roar more loud, 
And the sails did sigh like sedge; 



t^t Mmt of ttie ancient farmer 125 

And the rain poured down from one 

black cloud ; 3»o 

The Moon was at its edge. 

The thick black cloud was cleft, and 

still 
The Moon was at its side : 
Like waters shot from some high crag. 
The lightning fell with never a jag, 3*5 

A river steep and wide. 

The loud wind never reached the The bodies 

, . of the ship's 

^"^P' crew are in- 

Yet now the ship moved on ! spired, and 

Beneath the lightning; and the Moon the ship 

r^, 11 moves on : 

The dead men gave a groan. 33° 

They groaned, they stirred, they all 

uprose, 
Nor spake, nor moved their eyes ; 
It had been strange, even in a dream, 
To have seen those dead men rise. 

The helmsman steered, the ship moved 

on ; 335 

Yet never a breeze up blew ; 
The mariners all 'gan work the ropes, 
Where they were wont to do j 



1 26 Select iponufif of Colmoge 

They raised their limbs like lifeless 

tools — 
We were a ghastly crew, 34^ 

The body of my brother's son 
Stood by me, knee to knee : 
The body and I pulled at one rope 
But he said nought to me. 



But not by c J fg^r thee, ancient Mariner ! * 345 

the men, °^ Be calm, thou Wedding-Guest ! 

nor by 'Twas not those souls that fled in 

daemons of rtoin 

U<11I1, 

earth or ttti. • i. i. • 

middle air Which to their corses came again, 
but by a But a troop of spirits blest : 

blessed troop 

of angelic . i i i i 

spirits, sent For when It dawned — they dropped 
down by the their arms, 35° 

ofThe ^°" ^"^ clustered round the mast ; 
guardian Sweet sounds Tose slowly through their 
^''^' mouths. 

And from their bodies passed. , 

Around, around, flew each sweet sound, 
Then darted to the Sun ; 355 

Slowly the sounds came back again, 
Now mixed, now one by one. 



t^t li^itnt of tlie Sincimt Mariner 1 2 7 



Sometimes a-dropping from the sky 
I heard the sky-lark sing; 
Sometimes all little birds that are, 
How they seemed to fill the sea and air 
With their sweet jargoning ! 



360 



And now 't was like all instruments, 
Now like a lonely flute ; 
And now it is an angel's song, 
That makes the heavens be mute. 



365 



It ceased ; yet still the sails made on 

A pleasant noise till noon, 

A noise like of a hidden brook 

In the leafy month of June, 

That to the sleeping woods all night 

Singeth a quiet tune. 



370 



Till noon we quietly sailed on, 
Yet never a breeze did breathe : 
Slowly and smoothly went the ship. 
Moved onward from beneath. 



375 



Under the keel nine fathom deep. 

From the land of mist and snow, 

The spirit slid : and it was he 

That made the ship to go. the shi'ls 3^° 

far as the Line, in obedience to the an- 
gelic troop, but still requireth vengeance. 



The lone- 
some Spirit 
from the 
south-pole 
carries on 
the ship as 



1 28 Select jponufif of Coleriop 

The sails at noon left ofF their tune, 
And the ship stood still also. 

The Sun, right up above the mast, 
Had fixed her to the ocean : 
But in a minute she 'gan stir, 385 

Wfth a short uneasy motion — 
Backwards and forwards half her length 
With a short uneasy motion. 

Then like a pawing horse let go. 

She made a sudden bound : 390 

It flung the blood into my head, 

And I fell down in a swound. 

The Polar 

Spirit's How long in that same fit I lay, 
f ^°^- I have not to declare ; 

daemons, ,. . ,.^ ' . 

the invisible out ere my livmg lire returned, 395 

inhabitants I heard and in my soul discerned 

of the ele- t-> • • u • 

ment, take ^wo voiccs m the air. 

part in his 

wrong 5 and c jg it he ? ' quoth onc, ' Is this the man ? 

two of them -r* i • i i • i 

relate one ^Y him who died on cross, 

to the With his cruel bow he laid full low 400 

other, that ^he harmless Albatross. 

penance 
long and 

heavy for Xhc Spirit who bidcth by himself 

Mariner^" ^" ^^^ ^^"^ ^^ "^^^^ ^^^ Snow, 

hath been accorded to the Polar Spirit, who returneth southward. 



t\)t l^mt of t^e aincimt Mariner 1 29 

He loved the bird that loved the man 

Who shot him with his bow.' 405 

The other was a softer voice, 

As soft as honey-dew : 

Quoth he, ' The man hath penance 

done. 
And penance more will do.* 

PART VI 
FIRST VOICE 

' But tell me, tell me ! speak again, 410 

Thy soft response renewing — 
What makes that ship drive on so 

fast ? 
What is the ocean doing ? * 

SECOND VOICE 

' Still as a slave before his lord, 

The ocean hath no blast; 415 

His great bright eye most silently 

Up to the Moon is cast — 

If he may know which way to go ; 

For she guides him smooth or grim. 

See, brother, see ! how graciously 420 

She looketh down on him.' 



130 g>elect }poettt0 of ColmDge 

FIRST VOICE 

The Mari- c But why drivcs on that ship so fast, 

ner hath J^'^^y^^^^ qj. ^^VC Or wind ? ' 
been cast in- 
to a trance : 
for the an- SECOND VOICE 

geiic power , j.^^ ^.^ .^ ^^^ ^ before, 

causeth the i i • i 

vessel to And closes from behind. 425 

drive north- 

r'htr„Fly, brother, fly! more high, more 

life could high ! 

endure. Qr we shall be belated : 

For slow and slow that ship will go. 
When the Mariner's trance is abated.' 



The super- I woke, and we were sailing on 430 

natural As in a gentle weather : 

motion is o 

retarded} i was night, calm night, the moon 

the Mariner waS high, 

awakes, and yj^g dead men stood together. 

his penance d 

begins 

All Stood together on the deck. 
For a charnel-dungeon fitter : 435 

All fixed on me their stony eyes. 
That in the Moon did glitter. 



anew. 



The pang, the curse, with which they 

died. 
Had never passed away : 



t\)t Mmt of t\)t ancient Mariner 1 3 1 

I could not draw my eyes from theirs, 440 

Nor turn them up to pray. 

And now this spell was snapt : once The curse 
more '' ^."^"7 

T . , , expiated. 

1 Viewed the ocean green, 

And looked far forth, yet little saw 

Of what had else been seen — 445 

Like one, that on a lonesome road 

Doth^ walk in fear and dread. 

And having once turned round walks on. 

And turns no more his head ; 

Because he knows, a frightful fiend 450 

Doth close behind him tread. 

But soon there breathed a wind on me, 

Nor sound nor motion made : 

Its path was not upon the sea. 

In ripple or in shade. 455 

It raised my hair, it fanned my cheek 
Like a meadow-gale of spring — 
It mingled strangely with my fears. 
Yet it felt like a welcoming. 

Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship, 460 

Yet she sailed softly too : 



1 3 2 ^tlttt poems' of ColeriDge 

Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze — 
On me alone it blew. 



And the Qh ! dream of joy ! is this indeed 
Mariner be- The light-house top I See ? 465 

hoideth his Is this the hill ? is this the kirk ? 
native jg ^j^jg mine own countree ? 

country. 

We drifted o'er the harbour-bar, 

And I with sobs did pray — 

O let me be awake, my God ! 470 

Or let me sleep alway. 

The harbour-bay was clear as glass. 

So smoothly it was strewn ! 

And on the bay the moonlight lay. 

And the shadow of the Moon. 475 

The rock shone bright, the kirk no 

less. 
That stands above the rock : 
The moonlight steeped in silentness 
The steady weathercock. 

And the bay was white with silent light 
Till rising from the same, 481 

The angelic Full many shapes, that shadows were, 

spirite leave j^^ crimson colours came. 

the dead 
bodies, 



1 



t^t Htme of tlje ancient farmer 133 

A little distance from the prow And appear 

Those crimson shadows were : forms'or" 

I turned my eyes upon the deck^ — light. 486 
Oh, Christ ! what saw I there ! 

Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat, 

And, by the holy rood ! 

A man all light, a seraph-man, 490 

On every corse there stood. 

This seraph-band, each waved his hand : 

It was a heavenly sight ! 

They stood as signals to the land, 

Each one a lovely light ; 495 

This seraph-band, each waved his hand, 
No voice did they impart — 
No voice ; but oh ! the silence sank 
Like music on my heart. 

But soon I heard the dash of oars, 500 

I heard the Pilot's cheer; 

My head was turned perforce away, 

And I saw a boat appear. 

The Pilot and the Pilot's boy, 

I heard them coming fast : 505 

Dear Lord in Heaven ! it was a joy 

The dead men could not blast. 



134 Select poems? of Coleritige 

I saw a third — I heard his voice : 

It is the Hermit good ! 

He singeth loud his godly hymns 510 

That he makes in the wood. 

He'll shrieve my soul, he'll wash 

away 
The Albatross's blood. 

PART VII 

The Her- This Hermit good lives in that wood 
mitofthe "Which slopes down to the sea. 515 

Wood, ^^ 1 11 i_- -1 

How loudly his sweet voice he 

rears ! 
He loves to talk with marineres 
That come from a far countree. 



He kneels at morn, and noon, and 

eve — 
He hath a cushion plump : 520 

It is the moss that wholly hides 
The rotted old oak-stump. 

The skiff-boat neared : I heard them 

talk, 
' Why, this is strange, I trow ! 
Where are those lights so many and 

fair, 525 

That signal made but now ? ' 



t\)t Wmt of t\)t atncient farmer 135 

' Strange, by my faith ! ' the Hermit Approach- 
said— J^^^^^j^ 

' And they answered not our cheer ! wonder 

The planks looked warped ! and see 
those sails, 

How thin they are and sere ! 53° 

I never saw aught like to them, 

Unless perchance it were 

Brown skeletons of leaves that lag 
My forest-brook along ; 

When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow, 535 

And the owlet whoops to the wolf be- 
low. 
That eats the she-wolPs young.' 

' Dear Lord ! it hath a fiendish look — 

(The Pilot made reply) 

I am a-feared' — ' Push on, push on ! ' 540 

Said the Hermit cheerily. 

The boat came closer to the ship, 

But I nor spake nor stirred ; 

The boat came close beneath the ship. 

And straight a sound was heard. 545 

Under the water it rumbled on. The ship 

Still louder and more dread : '^^f^'^v 

sinketh. 



136 ^tlttt ^ponnfi! of ColeriDge 

It reached the ship, it split the bay ; 
The ship went down like lead. 

The ancient Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound, 
^^T"'h ^^^^^ s^y ^"^ ocean smote, 551 

Pilot's boat. Like one that hath been seven days 
drowned 
My body lay afloat ; 
But swift as dreams, myself I found 
Within the Pilot's boat. 555 

Upon the whirl, where sank the ship, 
The boat spun round and round ; 
And all was still, save that the hill 
Was telling of the sound. 

I moved my lips — the Pilot shrieked 560 
And fell down in a fit ; 
The holy Hermit raised his eyes, 
And prayed where he did sit. 

I took the oars : the Pilot's boy. 

Who now doth crazy go, 565 

Laughed loud and long, and all the 

while 
His eyes went to and fro. 
' Ha ! ha ! ' quoth he, ' full plain I see, 
The Devil knows how to row.' 



t^t H^imt of tlje Ancient ^mntt 137 

And now, all in my own countree, 570 

I stood on the firm land ! 

The Hermit stepped forth from the 

boat, 
And scarcely he could stand. 

' O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man ! ' The ancient 
The Hermit crossed his brow. Manner ^j^ 

' Say quick,' quoth he, ' I bid thee say — entreateth 
What manner of man art thou ? ' the Hermit 

to shrieve 
him ; and 

Forthwith this frame of mine was the penance 

wrenched of life falls 

With a woful agony. 

Which forced me to begin my tale ; 580 

And then it left me free. 



Since then, at an uncertain hour, And ever 



and anon 
throughout 



That agony returns : 

And till my ghastly tale is told, hirfuture"' 584 

This heart within me burns. life an agony 

constrain- 
eth him to 

I pass, like night, from land to land ; travel from 
I have strange power of speech ; land to land, 

That moment that his face I see, 
I know the man that must hear 

me : 
To him my tale I teach. 590 



138 Select l|Donn0 of ColeriUge 



1 



What loud uproar bursts from that 

door ! 
The wedding-guests are there : 
But in the garden-bower the bride 
And bride-maids singing are : 
And hark the little vesper bell, 595 

Which biddeth me to prayer ! 

O Wedding-Guest ! this soul hath been 
Alone on a wide wide sea : 
So lonely 'twas, that God himself 
Scarce seemed there to be. 600 

O sweeter than the marriage-feast, 
*Tis sweeter far to me, 
To walk together to the kirk 
With a goodly company ! — 

To walk together to the kirk, 605 

And all together pray. 
While each to his great Father bends, 
Old men, and babes, and loving friends 
And youths and maidens gay ! 

And to Farewell, farewell ! but this I tell 610 

hirown^ To thee, thou Wedding-Guest ! 
example, He praycth well, who loveth well 

love and g^^-j^ ^^^^ ^j^j l^-j.^ ^j^^j bcast. 

reverence to 

all things that God made and loveth. 



Cl)n0tabel 139 

He prayeth best, who loveth best 

All things both great and small; 615 

For the dear God who loveth us, 

He made and loveth all. 

The Mariner, whose eye is bright. 

Whose beard with age is hoar. 

Is gone : and now the Wedding-Guest ^^° 

Turned from the bridegroom's door. 

He went like one that hath been 

stunned. 
And is of sense forlorn : 
A sadder and a wiser man, 
He rose the morrow morn. 625 

CHRISTABEL 

1797, 1800-1816 

PART THE FIRST 

'Tis the middle of night by the castle clock, 
And the owls have awakened the crowing cock, 

Tu — whit ! Tu — whoo ! 

And hark, again ! the crowing cock, 

How drowsily it crew. 5 

Sir Leoline, the Baron rich. 
Hath a toothless mastiff, which 



140 Select l^otmsi of Colmoge 

From her kennel beneath the rock 

Maketh answer to the clock, 

Four for the quarters, and twelve for the hour; 

Ever and aye, by shine and shower, ii 

Sixteen short howls, not over loud ; 

Some say, she sees my lady's shroud. 

Is the night chilly and dark? 

The night is chilly, but not dark. 15 

The thin gray cloud is spread on high, 

It covers but not hides the sky. 

The moon is behind, and at the full ; 

And yet she looks both small and dull. 

The night is chill, the cloud is gray : 20 

'Tis a month before the month of May, 

And the Spring comes slowly up this way. 

The lovely lady, Christabel, 

Whom her father loves so well, 

What makes her in the wood so late, 25 

A furlong from the castle gate ? 

She had dreams all yesternight 

Of her own betrothed knight ; 

And she in the midnight wood will pray 

For the weal of her lover that's far away. 30 

She stole along, she nothing spoke, 
The sighs she heaved were soft and low. 



Cijri^tabel 141 

And naught was green upon the oak 

But moss and rarest mistletoe : 

She kneels beneath the huge oak tree, 35 

And in silence prayeth she. 

The lady sprang up suddenly, 

The lovely lady, Christabel ! 

It moaned as near, as near can be. 

But what it is she cannot tell. — 40 

On the other side it seems to be. 

Of the huge, broad-breasted, old oak tree. 

The night is chill ; the forest bare ; 

Is it the wind that moaneth bleak ? 

There is not wind enough in the air 45 

To move away the ringlet curl 

From the lovely lady's cheek — 

There is not wind enough to twirl 

The one red leaf, the last of its clan. 

That dances as often as dance it can, 50 

Hanging so light, and hanging so high. 

On the topmost twig that looks up at the sky. 

Hush, beating heart of Christabel ! 
Jesu, Maria, shield her well ! 

She folded her arms beneath her cloak, 55 

And stole to the other side of the oak. 
What sees she there ? 



142 Select iponns; of Coleritige 

There she sees a damsel bright, 

Drest in a silken robe of white, 

That shadowy in the moonlight shone : 60 

The neck that made that white robe wan, 

Her stately neck, and arms were bare ; 

Her blue-veined feet unsandal'd were, 

And wildly glittered here and there 

The gems entangled in her hair. 65 

I guess, 'twas frightful there to see 

A lady so richly clad as she — 

Beautiful exceedingly ! 

Mary mother, save me now ! 

(Said Christabel,) And who art thou ? 70 

The lady strange made answer meet. 
And her voice was faint and sweet : — 
Have pity on my sore distress, 
I scarce can speak for weariness : 
Stretch forth thy hand and have no fear ! 
Said Christabel, How camest thou here ? 
And the lady, whose voice was faint and sweet, 
Did thus pursue her answer meet : — 



75 



My sire is of a noble line. 

And my name is Geraldine : 80 

Five warriors seized me yestermorn. 

Me, even me, a maid forlorn : 



I 



Cljrififtaijel 143 

They choked my cries with force and fright, 

And tied me on a palfrey white. 

The palfrey was as fleet as wind, 85 

And they rode furiously behind. 

They spurred amain, their steeds were white: 

And once we crossed the shade of night. 

As sure as Heaven shall rescue me, 

I have no thought what men they be; 90 

Nor do I know how long it is 

(For I have lain entranced I wis) 

Since one, the tallest of the five, 

Took me from the palfrey's back, 

A weary woman, scarce alive. 95 

Some muttered words his comrades spoke : 

He placed me underneath this oak; 

He swore they would return with haste ; 

Whither they went I cannot tell — 

I thought I heard, some minutes past, 100 

Sounds as of a castle bell. 

Stretch forth thy hand (thus ended she). 

And help a wretched maid to flee. 

Then Christabel stretched forth her hand. 

And comforted fair Geraldine : 105 

O well, bright dame ! may you command 

The service of Sir Leoline ; 

And gladly our stout chivalry 

Will he send forth and friends withal 



144 Select ipoems? of ColeriUge 

To guide and guard you safe and free no 

Home to your noble father^s hall. 

She rose : and forth with steps they passed 

That strove to be, and were not, fast. 

Her gracious stars the lady blest. 

And thus spake on sweet Christabel: 115 

All our household are at rest, 

The hall as silent as the cell ; 

Sir Leoline is weak in health. 

And may not well awakened be. 

But we will move as if in stealth, izo 

And I beseech your courtesy. 

This night, to share your couch with me. 

They crossed the moat, and Christabel 

Took the key that fitted well ; 

A little door she opened straight, 125 

All in the middle of the gate ; 

The gate that was ironed within and without 

Where an army in battle array had marched 

out. 
The lady sank, belike through pain, 
And Christabel with might and main 130 

Lifted her up, a weary weight. 
Over the threshold of the gate : 
Then the lady rose again. 
And moved, as she were not in pain. 



Ctiriflftabel 145 

So free from danger, free from fear, 135 

They crossed the court : right glad they were. 

And Christabel devoutly cried 

To the lady by her side. 

Praise we the Virgin all divine 

Who hath rescued thee from thy distress ! 140 

Alas, alas ! said Geraldine, 

I cannot speak for weariness. 

So free from danger, free from fear. 

They crossed the court : right glad they were. 

Outside her kennel, the mastiff old 145 

Lay fast asleep, in moonshine cold. 

The mastiff old did not awake. 

Yet she an angry moan did make ! 

And what can ail the mastiff bitch ? 

Never till now she uttered yell 150 

Beneath the eye of Christabel. 

Perhaps it is the owlet's scritch : 

For what can ail the mastiff bitch ? 

They passed the hall, that echoes still. 

Pass as lightly as you will ! 155 

The brands were flat, the brands were dying. 

Amid their own white ashes lying ; 

But when the lady passed, there came 

A tongue of light, a fit of flame ; 

And Christabel saw the lady's eye, 160 



146 Select J^otnaa of Coleridge 

And nothing else saw she thereby, 

Save the boss of the shield of Sir Leoline tall, 

Which hung in a murky old niche in the wall. 

O softly tread, said Christabel, 

My father seldom sleepeth well. 165 

Sweet Christabel her feet doth bare. 

And jealous of the listening air 

They steal their way from stair to stair. 

Now in glimmer, and now in gloom. 

And now they pass the Baron's room, 170 

As still as death, with stifled breath ! 

And now have reached her chamber door ; 

And now doth Geraldine press down 

The rushes of the chamber floor. 

The moon shines dim in the open air, 175 

And not a moonbeam enters here. 

But they without its light can see 

The chamber carved so curiously. 

Carved with figures strange and sweet. 

All made out of the carver's brain, 180 

For a lady's chamber meet : 

The lamp with twofold silver chain 

Is fastened to an angel's feet. 

The silver lamp burns dead and dim ; 

But Christabel the larnp will trim. 185 



Ct)ris?tabel 147 

She trimmed the lamp, and made it bright, 
And left it swinging to and fro, 
While Geraldine, in wretched plight, 
Sank down upon the floor below. 

weary lady, Geraldine, 190 

1 pray you, drink this cordial wine ! 
It is a wine of virtuous powers ; 
My mother made it of wild flowers. 

And will your mother pity me. 

Who am a maiden most forlorn ? 195 

Christabel answered — Woe is me ! 

She died the hour that I was born. 

I have heard the grey-haired friar tell 

How on her death-bed she did say. 

That she should hear the castle-bell ^oo 

Strike twelve upon my wedding-day. 

mother dear ! that thou wert here ! 

1 would, said Geraldine, she were ! 

But soon with altered voice, said she — 

' OfF, wandering mother ! Peak and pine ! 205 

I have power to bid thee flee.* 

Alas ! what ails poor Geraldine ? 

Why stares she with unsettled eye ? 

Can she the bodiless dead espy ? 

And why with hollow voice cries she, 210 



148 g>elm JIDoentflf of Coleritige 

' OfF, woman, off! this hour is mine — 
Though thou her guardian spirit be, 
OfF, woman, off! 'tis given to me.' 

Then Christabel knelt by the lady's side. 

And raised to heaven her eyes so blue — 215 

Alas ! said she, this ghastly ride — 

Dear lady ! it hath wildered you ! 

The lady wiped her moist cold brow, 

And, faintly said, ' 'tis over now ! ' 

Again the wild-flower wine she drank : 220 

Her fair large eyes 'gan glitter bright. 

And from the floor whereon she sank, 

The lofty lady stood upright: 

She was most beautiful to see. 

Like a lady of a far countree. 225 

And thus the lofty lady spake — 

' All they who live in the upper sky, 

Do love you, holy Christabel ! 

And you love them, and for their sake 

And for the good which me befel, 230 

Even I in my degree will try. 

Fair maiden, to requite you well. 

But now unrobe yourself; for I 

Must pray, ere yet in bed I lie.' 



Ct)ri0tabel 149 

Quoth Christabel, So let it be ! 235 

And as the lady bade, did she. 
Her gentle limbs did she undress, 
And lay down in her loveliness. 

But through her brain of weal and woe 

So many thoughts moved to and fro, 240 

That vain it were her lids to close ; 

So half-way from the bed she rose. 

And on her elbow did recline 

To look at the lady Geraldine. 

Beneath the lamp the lady bowed, 245 

And slowly rolled her eyes around ; 

Then drawing in her breath aloud, 

Like one that shuddered, she unbound 

The cincture from beneath her breast : 

Her silken robe, and inner vest, 250 

Dropt to her feet, and full in view. 

Behold ! her bosom and half her side 

A sight to dream of, not to tell ! 

O shield her ! shield sweet Christabel ! 

Yet Geraldine nor speaks nor stirs ; 255 

Ah ! what a stricken look was hers ! 
Deep from within she seems half-way 
To lift some weight with sick assay, 
And eyes the maid and seeks delay ; 



150 ^tlttt iponnsi of Coleritige 

Then suddenly, as one defied, a6o 

Collects herself in scorn and pride. 

And lay down by the Maiden's side ! — 

And in her arms the maid she took, 
Ah wel-a-day ! 

And with low voice and doleful look 265 

These words did say : 

' In the touch of this bosom there worketh a 
spell. 

Which is lord of thy utterance, Christabel ! 

Thou knowest to-night, and wilt know to- 
morrow, 

This mark of my shame, this seal of my sorrow ; 
But vainly thou warrest, 271 

For this is alone in 
Thy power to declare. 

That in the dim forest 
Thou heard'st a low moaning, 275 

And found'st a bright lady, surpassingly fair ; 

And didst bring her home with thee in love and 
in charity. 

To shield her and shelter her from the damp air/ 



THE CONCLUSION 
TO PART THE FIRST 



It was a lovely sight to see 

The lady Christabel, when she 281 



1 



Was praying at the old oak tree. 

Amid the jagged shadows 

Of mossy leafless boughs, 

Kneeling in the moonlight, 

To make her gentle vows ; 285 

Her slender palms together prest, 
Heaving sometimes on her breast ; 
Her face resigned to bliss or bale — 
Her face, oh call it fair not pale. 
And both blue eyes more bright than clear, 290 
Each about to have a tear. 

With open eyes (ah woe is me !) 

Asleep, and dreaming fearfully. 

Fearfully dreaming, yet, I wis, 

Dreaming that alone, which is — 295 

O sorrow and shame ! Can this be she, 

The lady, who knelt at the old oak tree ? 

And lo ! the worker of these harms. 

That holds the maiden in her arms. 

Seems to slumber still and mild, 300 

As a mother with her child. 

A star hath set, a star hath risen, 

O Geraldine ! since arms of thine 

Have been the lovely lady's prison. 

O Geraldine ! one hour was thine — 305 

Thou'st had thy will ! By tairn and rill, 



1 5 2 §)f lect potms of ColeriDge 

The night-birds all that hour were still. 

But now they are jubilant anew, 

From clifF and tower, tu — whoo ! tu — whoo ! 

Tu — whoo ! tu — whoo ! from wood and 

fell! 310 

And see ! the lady Christabel 

Gathers herself from out her trance j 

Her limbs relax, her countenance 

Grows sad and soft ; the smooth thin lids 

Close o'er her eyes ; and tears she sheds — 315 

Large tears that leave the lashes bright ! 

And oft the while she seems to smile 

As infants at a sudden light ! 

Yea, she doth smile, and she doth weep. 

Like a youthful hermitess, 320 

Beauteous in a wilderness. 

Who, praying always, prays in sleep. 

And, if she move unquietly. 

Perchance, 'tis but the blood so free 

Comes back and tingles in her feet. 3^5 

No doubt, she hath a vision sweet. 

What if her guardian spirit 'twere, 

What if she knew her mother near ? 

But this she knows, in joys and woes, 

That saints will aid if men will call : 33° 

For the blue sky bends over all ! 



Clirisftabel 153 

PART THE SECOND 

Each matin bell, the Baron saith, 

Knells us back to a world of death. 

These words Sir Leoline first said, 

When he rose and found his lady dead : 335 

These words Sir Leoline will say 

Many a morn to his dying day ! 

And hence the custom and law began 

That still at dawn the sacristan. 

Who duly pulls the heavy bell, 340 

Five and forty beads must tell 

Between each stroke — a warning knell, 

Which not a soul can choose but hear 

From Bratha Head to Wyndermere. 

Saith Bracy the bard. So let it knell ! 345 

And let the drowsy sacristan 

Still count as slowly as he can ! 

There is no lack of such, I ween, 

As well fill up the space between. 

In Langdale Pike and Witch's Lair, 350 

And Dungeon-ghyll so foully rent. 

With ropes of rock and bells of air 

Three sinful sextons' ghosts are pent. 

Who all give back, one after t'other. 

The death-note to their living brother ; 355 

And oft too, by the knell offended, 



154 Select ponns! of ColeriDge 

Just as their one ! two ! three ! is ended, 
The devil mocks the doleful tale 
With a merry peal from Borrowdale. 

The air is still ! through mist and cloud 360 

That merry peal comes ringing loud ; 

And Geraldine shakes off her dread, 

And rises lightly from the bed ; 

Puts on her silken vestments white. 

And tricks her hair in lovely plight, 365 

And nothing doubting of her spell 

Awakens the lady Christabel. 

' Sleep you, sweet lady Christabel ? 

I trust that you have rested well.* 

And Christabel awoke and spied 370 

The same who lay down by her side — 

O rather say, the same whom she 

Raised up beneath the old oak tree ! 

Nay, fairer yet ! and yet more fair ! 

For she belike hath drunken deep 375 

Of all the blessedness of sleep ! 

And while she spake, her looks, her air. 

Such gentle thankfulness declare, 

That (so it seemed) her girded vests 

Grew tight beneath her heaving breasts. 380 

' Sure I have sinn'd ! ' said Christabel, 

' Now heaven be praised if all be well ! ' 



Ctiri^tabel 155 

And in low faltering tones, yet sweet, 

Did she the lofty lady greet 

With such perplexity of mind 385 

As dreams too lively leave behind. 

So quickly she rose, and quickly arrayed 

Her maiden limbs, and having prayed 

That He, who on the cross did groan, 

Might wash away her sins unknown, 390 

She forthwith led fair Geraldine 

To meet her sire. Sir Leoline. 

The lovely maid and the lady tall 

Are pacing both into the hall, 

And pacing on through page and groom, 395 

Enter the Baron's presence-room. 

The Baron rose, and while he prest 

His gentle daughter to his breast. 

With cheerful wonder in his eyes 

The lady Geraldine espies, 400 

And gave such welcome to the same, 

As might beseem so bright a dame ! 

But when he heard the lady's tale. 

And when she told her father's name. 

Why waxed Sir Leoline so pale, 405 

Murmuring o'er the name again, 

Lord Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine .? 



156 §>elm lIDoemsi of Coleridge 

Alas ! they had been friends in youth ; 

But whispering tongues can poison truth ; 

And constancy lives in realms above ; 410 

And life is thorny ; and youth is vain ; 

And to be wroth with one we love 

Doth work like madness in the brain. 

And thus it chanced, as I divine, 

With Roland and Sir Leoline. 415 

Each spake words of high disdain 

And insult to his heart's best brother : 

They parted — ne'er to meet again ! 

But never either found another 

To free the hollow heart, from paining — 420 

They stood aloof, the scars remaining. 

Like cliffs which had been rent asunder ; 

A dreary sea now flows between. 

But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder, 

Shall wholly do away, I ween, 4^5 

The marks of that which once hath been. 

Sir Leoline, a moment's space. 

Stood gazing on the damsel's face : 

And the youthful Lord of Tryermaine 

Came back upon his heart again. 43° 

O then the Baron forgot his age, 

His noble heart swelled high with rage; 

He swore by the wounds in Jesu's side 



Ctjri^tabel 157 

He would proclaim it far and wide, 

With trump and solemn heraldry, 435 

That they, who thus had wronged the dame 

Were base as spotted infamy ! 

' And if they dare deny the same. 

My herald shall appoint a week, 

And let the recreant traitors seek 440 

My tourney court — that there and then 

I may dislodge their reptile souls 

From the bodies and forms of men ! ' 

He spake : his eye in lightning rolls ! 

For the lady was ruthlessly seized ; and he 

kenned 445 

In the beautiful lady the child of his friend ! 

And now the tears were on his face. 

And fondly in his arms he took 

Fair Geraldine, who met the embrace. 

Prolonging it with joyous look. 450 

Which when she viewed, a vision fell 

Upon the soul of Christabel, 

The vision of fear, the touch and pain ! 

She shrunk and shuddered, and saw again — 

(Ah, woe is me ! Was it for thee, 455 

Thou gentle maid ! such sights to see ?) 

Again she saw that bosom old. 
Again she felt that bosom cold, 



1 5 8 g>elect l^otm^ o( ColeriDge 

And drew in her breath with a hissing sound : 
Whereat the Knight turned wildly round, 460 

And nothing saw, but his own sweet maid 
With eyes upraised, as one that prayed. 

The touch, the sight, had passed away, 

And in its stead that vision blest. 

Which comforted her after-rest, 465 

While in the lady's arms she lay. 

Had put a rapture in her breast. 

And on her lips and o'er her eyes 

Spread smiles like light ! 

With new surprise, 
' What ails then my beloved child ? ' 470 

The Baron said — His daughter mild 
Made answer, ' All will yet be well ! * 
I ween, she had no power to tell 
Aught else : so mighty was the spell. 

Yet he, who saw this Geraldine, 475 

Had deemed her sure a thing divine. 

Such sorrow with such grace she blended, 

As if she feared she had offended 

Sweet Christabel, that gentle maid ! 

And with such lowly tones she prayed 480 

She might be sent without delay 

Home to her father's mansion. 



f 



Ctiri0tabel 159 

' Nay! 
Nay, by my soul ! ' said Leoline. 
' Ho ! Bracy the bard, the charge be thine ! 
Go thou, with music sweet and loud, 485 

And take two steeds with trappings proud, 
And take the youth whom thou lov'st best 
To bear thy harp, and learn thy song, 
And clothe you both in solemn vest. 
And over the mountains haste along, 49° 

Lest wandering folk, that are abroad. 
Detain you on the valley road. 

' And when he has crossed the Irthing flood. 

My merry bard ! he hastes, he hastes 

Up Knorren Moor, through Halegarth Wood, 495 

And reaches soon that castle good 

Which stands and threatens Scotland's wastes. 

' Bard Bracy ! bard Bracy ! your horses are 

fleet. 
Ye must ride up the hall, your music so sweet, 
More loud than your horses' echoing feet ! 500 
And loud and loud to Lord Roland call. 
Thy daughter is safe in Langdale hall ! 
Thy beautiful daughter is safe and free — 
Sir Leoline greets thee thus through me. 
He bids thee come without delay 505 

With all thy numerous array; 



i6o ^tlttt l^otm^ of Coleriuge 

And take thy lovely daughter home : 

Ar?d he will meet thee on the way 

With all his numerous array 

White with their panting palfreys' foam: 510 

And, by mine honour ! I will say, 

That I repent me of the day 

When I spake words of fierce disdain 

To Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine ! — 

— For since that evil hour hath flown, 515 

Many a summer's sun hath shone ; 

Yet ne'er found I a friend again 

Like Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine.' 

The lady fell, and clasped his knees. 

Her face upraised, her eyes o'erflowing ; 520 

And Bracy replied, with faltering voice, 

His gracious hail on all bestowing ; 

' Thy words, thou sire of Christabel, 

Are sweeter than my harp can tell ; 

Yet might I gain a boon of thee, 525 

This day my journey should not be. 

So strange a dream hath come to me ; 

That I had vowed with music loud 

To clear yon wood from thing unblest, 

Warn'd by a vision in my rest ! 53° 

For in my sleep I saw that dove. 

That gentle bird, whom thou dost love. 

And call'st by thy own daughter's name — 



€W^tn\)t\ i6i 

Sir Leoline ! I saw the same. 

Fluttering, and uttering fearful moan, 535 

Among the green herbs in the forest alone. 

Which when I saw and when I heard, 

I wonder'd what might ail the bird ; 

For nothing near it could I see, 

Save the grass and green herbs underneath the 

old tree. 540 

' And in my dream, methought, I went 

To search out what might there be found j 

And what the sweet bird's trouble meant. 

That thus lay fluttering on the ground. 

I went and peered, and could descry 545 

No cause for her distressful cry ; 

But yet for her dear lady's sake 

I stooped, methought, the dove to take, 

When lo ! I saw a bright green snake 

Coiled around its wings and neck. 550 

Green as the herbs on which it couched. 

Close by the dove's its head it crouched ; 

And with the dove it heaves and stirs. 

Swelling its neck as she swelled hers ! 

I woke; it was the midnight hour, 555 

The clock was echoing in the tower ; 

But though my slumber was gone by, 

This dream it would not pass away — 

It seems to live upon my eye ! 



1 6 2 ^tltct ipoenttf of ColeriDge 

And thence I vowed this self-same day 560 

With music strong and saintly song 
To wander through the forest bare, 
Lest aught unholy loiter there.' 

Thus Bracy said : the Baron, the while. 

Half-listening heard him with a smile; 565 

Then turned to Lady Geraldine, 

His eyes made up of wonder and love ; 

And said in courtly accents fine, 

' Sweet maid. Lord Roland's beauteous dove, 

With arms more strong than harp or song, 57° 

Thy sire and I will crush the snake ! ' 

He kissed her forehead as he spake, 

And Geraldine in maiden wise 

Casting down her large bright eyes. 

With blushing cheek and courtesy fine 575 

She turned her from Sir Leoline ; 

Softly gathering up her train. 

That o'er her right arm fell again ; 

And folded her arms across her chest. 

And couched her head upon her breast, 580 

And looked askance at Christabel 

Jesu, Maria, shield her well ! 

A snake's small eye blinks dull and shy. 
And the lady's eyes they shrunk in her head, 
Each shrunk up to a serpent's eye, 585 



Cljrisftabel 163 

And with somewhat of malice, and more of 

dread, 
At Christabel she look'd askance ! — 
One moment — and the sight was fled! 
But Christabel in dizzy trance 
Stumbling on the unsteady ground 590 

Shuddered aloud, with a hissing sound ; 
And Geraldine again turned round. 
And like a thing, that sought relief. 
Full of wonder and full of grief. 
She rolled her large bright eyes divine 595 

Wildly on Sir Leoline. 

The maid, alas ! her thoughts are gone, 

She nothing sees — no sight but one ! 

The maid, devoid of guile and sin, 

I know not how, in fearful wise, 600 

So deeply had she drunken in 

That look, those shrunken serpent eyes, 

That all her features were resigned 

To this sole image in her mind : 

And passively did imitate 605 

That look of dull and treacherous hate ! 

And thus she stood, in dizzy trance. 

Still picturing that look askance 

With forced unconscious sympathy 

Full before her father's view 610 

As far as such a look could be 
In eyes so innocent and blue ! 



i64 Select ^Doems; of Coleritjge 

And when the trance was o'er, the maid 

Paused awhile, and inly prayed : 

Then falling at the Baron's feet, 615 

' By my mother's soul do I entreat 

That thou this woman send away ! ' 

She said : and more she could not say : 

For what she knew she could not tell, 

O'er-mastered by the mighty spell. 620 

Why is thy cheek so wan and wild, 

Sir Leoline ? thy only child 

Lies at thy feet, thy joy, thy pride. 

So fair, so innocent, so mild ; 

The same, for whom thy lady died ! 625 

O, by the pangs of her dear mother 

Think thou no evil of thy child ! 

For her, and thee, and for no other. 

She prayed the moment ere she died : 

Prayed that the babe for whom she died, 630 

Might prove her dear lord's joy and pride ! 

That prayer her deadly pangs beguiled. 
Sir Leoline ! 

And wouldst thou wrong thy only child. 

Her child and thine ? 635 

Within the Baron's heart and brain 
If thoughts, like these, had any share, 
They only swelled his rage and pain. 



11 



Ctirififtabel 165 

And did but work confusion there. 

His heart was cleft with pain and rage, 640 

His cheeks they quivered, his eyes were wild, 

Dishonour'd thus in his old age ; 

Dishonour'd by his only child, 

And all his hospitality 

To the insulted daughter of his friend 645 

By more than woman's jealousy 

Brought thus to a disgraceful end — 

He rolled his eye with stern regard 

Upon the gentle minstrel bard. 

And said in tones abrupt, austere — 650 

' Why, Bracy I dost thou loiter here ? 

I bade thee hence ! ' The bard obeyed ; 

And turning from his own sweet maid, 

The aged knight, Sir Leoline, 

Led forth the lady Geraldine ! 655 

THE CONCLUSION 
TO PART THE SECOND 

A little child, a limber elf. 

Singing, dancing to itself, 

A fairy thing with red round cheeks. 

That always finds, and never seeks. 

Makes such a vision to the sight 660 

As fills a father's eyes with light ; 

And pleasures flow in so thick and fast 



1 66 Select ^poern^ of Cole riDge 

Upon his heart, that he at last 

Must needs express his love's excess 

With words of unmeant bitterness. 665 

Perhaps *tis pretty to force together 

Thoughts so all unlike each other; 

To mutter and mock a broken charm, 

To dally with wrong that does no harm. 

Perhaps 'tis tender too and pretty 670 

At each wild word to feel within 

A sweet recoil of love and pity. 

And what, if in a world of sin 

(O sorrow and shame should this be true !) 

Such giddiness of heart and brain 675 

Comes seldom save from rage and pain, 

So talks as it's most used to do. 



1798-1825 
Encinctured with a twine of leaves, 
That leafy twine his only dress ! 
A lovely Boy was plucking fruits. 
By moonlight, in a wilderness. 
The moon was bright, the air was free. 
And fruits and flowers together grew 
On many a shrub and many a tree : 
And all put on a gentle hue. 
Hanging in the shadowy air 
Like a picture rich and rare. 



ii 



iFrance: an (Due 167 

It was a climate where, they say, 

The night is more belov'd than day. 

But who that beauteous Boy beguil'd. 

That beauteous Boy to linger here ? 

Alone, by night, a little child, 15 

In place so silent and so wild — 

Has he no friend, no loving mother near ? 

FRANCE: AN ODE 

1798-1798 

I 

Ye Clouds ! that far above me float and pause, 
Whose pathless march no mortal may con- 

troul ! 
Ye Ocean-Waves ! that, wheresoever ye 
roll. 
Yield homage only to eternal laws ! 
Ye Woods ! that listen to the night-birds' sing- 
ings _ 5 
Midway the smooth and perilous slope re- 
clined. 
Save when your own imperious branches swing- 
ing, 
Have made a solemn music of the wind ! 
Where, like a man beloved of God, 
Through glooms, which never woodman trod, 10 
How oft, pursuing fancies holy. 



1 68 ^titct JDoetttfli of Coleriuge 

My moonlight way o'er flowering weeds I 
wound, 
Inspired, beyond the guess of folly. 
By each rude shape and wild unconquerable 

sound ! 
O ye loud Waves ! and O ye Forests high ! 

And O ye Clouds that far above me soared ! 
Thou rising Sun ! thou blue rejoicing Sky ! 
Yea, every thing that is and will be free ! 
Bear witness for me, wheresoever ye be. 
With what deep worship I have still adored 
The spirit of divinest Liberty. 

II 

When France in wrath her giant-limbs upreared. 
And with that oath, which smote air, earth, 

and sea. 
Stamped her strong foot and said she would 
be free. 
Bear witness for me, how I hoped and feared ! 
With what a joy my lofty gratulation 

Unawed I sang, amid a slavish band : 
And when to whelm the disenchanted nation, 
Like fiends embattled by a wizard's wand. 
The Monarchs marched in evil day. 
And Britain join'd the dire array ; 
Though dear her shores and circling ocean. 
Though many friendships, many youthful loves 



iFrance: and^ue 169 

Had swoln the patriot emotion 
And flung a magic light o'er all her hills and 

groves i 35 

Yet still my voice, unaltered, sang defeat 

To all that braved the tyrant-quelling lance. 
And shame too long delayed and vain retreat ! 
For ne'er, O Liberty ! with partial aim 
I dimmed thy light or damped thy holy flame ; 4° 

But blessed the paeans of delivered France, 
And hung my head and wept at Britain's name. 

Ill 

* And what,' I said, ' though Blasphemy's loud 
scream 
With that sweet music of deliverance strove ! 
Though all the fierce and drunken passions 
wove 45 

A dance more wild than e'er was maniac's 
dream ! 
Ye storms, that round the dawning east as- 
sembled. 
The Sun was rising, though ye hid his light ! ' 
And when, to soothe my soul, that hoped and 
trembled. 
The dissonance ceased, and all seemed calm and 

bright ; 5° 

When France her front deep-scarr'd and gory 
Concealed with clustering wreaths of glory ; 



1 70 Select }|Doem0 of Colerioge 

When, insupportably advancing, 
Her arm made mockery of the warrior's 
ramp ; 
While timid looks of fury glancing, 55 

Domestic treason, crushed beneath her fatal 
stamp, 
Writhed like a wounded dragon in his gore; 
Then I reproached my fears that would not 
flee; 
' And soon,' I said, ' shall Wisdom teach her 

lore 
In the low huts of them that toil and groan ! 60 
And, conquering by her happiness alone, 

Shall France compel the nations to be free, 
Till Love and Joy look round, and call the Earth 
their own.' 

IV 

Forgive me. Freedom ! O forgive those dreams ! 

I hear thy voice, I hear thy loud lament, 65 

From bleak Helvetia's icy caverns sent — 
I hear thy groans upon her blood-stained streams ! 

Heroes, that for your peaceful country per- 
ished. 
And ye that, fleeing, spot your mountain-snows 

With bleeding wounds ; forgive me, that I 
cherished 70 

One thought that ever blessed your cruel foes ! 



iFrance: an (Bt>t 171 

To scatter rage and traitorous guilt 
Where Peace her jealous home had built ; 
A patriot-race to disinherit 
Of all that made their stormy wilds so dear; 75 

And with inexpiable spirit 
To taint the bloodless freedom of the moun- 
taineer — 
O France, that mockest Heaven, adulterous, 
blind. 
And patriot only in pernicious toils ! 
Are these thy boasts. Champion of human kind ? 80 

To mix with Kings in the low lust of sway. 
Yell in the hunt, and share the murderous prey ; 
To insult the shrine of Liberty with spoils 
From freemen torn ; to tempt and to betray ? 

V 

The Sensual and the Dark rebel in vain, 85 
Slaves by their own compulsion ! In mad 

game 
They burst their manacles and wear the name 

Of Freedom, graven on a heavier chain ! 
O Liberty ! with profitless endeavour 
Have I pursued thee, many a weary hour ; 90 

But thou nor swell' st the victor's strain, nor 
ever 
Didst breathe thy soul in forms of human power. 
AHke from all, howe'er they praise thee, 



172 Select iponn0 of Coleriuge 

(Nor prayer, nor boastful name delays thee) 

Alike from Priestcraft's harpy minions, 95 
And factious Blasphemy's obscener slaves. 
Thou speedest on thy subtle pinions. 
The guide of homeless winds, and playmate of 

the waves ! 
And there I felt thee ! — on that sea-clifPs 
verge. 
Whose pines, scarce travelled by the breeze 
above, 100 

Had made one murmur with the distant surge ! 
Yes, while I stood and gazed, my temples bare. 
And shot my being through earth, sea and air. 
Possessing all things with intensest love, 

O Liberty ! my spirit felt thee there. 105 



FROST AT MIDNIGHT 

1798-1798 

The Frost performs its secret ministry, 
Unhelped by any wind. The owlet's cry 
Came loud — and hark, again ! loud as before. 
The inmates of my cottage, all at rest. 
Have left me to that solitude, which suits 
Abstruser musings : save that at my side 
My cradled infant slumbers peacefully. 
'Tis calm indeed ! so calm, that it disturbs 
And vexes meditation with its strange 



iFro0t at ^iunigtit 173 

And extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and wood, lo 
This populous village ! Sea, and hill, and wood. 
With all the numberless goings-on of life. 
Inaudible as dreams ! the thin blue flame 
Lies on my low-burnt fire, and quivers not ; 
Only that film, which fluttered on the grate, 15 
Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing. 
Methinks, its motion in this hush of nature 
Gives it dim sympathies with me who live, 
Making it a companionable form. 
Whose puny flaps and freaks the idling Spirit 20 
By its own moods interprets, every where 
Echo or mirror seeking of itself, 
And makes a toy of Thought. 

But O ! how oft, 
How oft, at school, with most believing mind, 
Presageful, have I gazed upon the bars, ^5 

To watch that fluttering stranger ! and as oft 
With unclosed lids, already had I dreamt 
Of my sweet birth-place, and the old church- 
tower. 
Whose bells, the poor man's only music, rang 
From morn to evening, all the hot Fair-day, 30 
So sweetly, that they stirred and haunted me 
With a wild pleasure, falling on mine ear 
Most like articulate sounds of things to come ! 
So gazed I, till the soothing things, I dreamt, 



1 74 ^tlttt ^ponn0 of Coleritige 

Lulled me to sleep, and sleep prolonged my 

dreams ! 35 

And so I brooded all the following morn, 
Awed by the stern preceptor's face, mine eye 
Fixed with mock study on my swimming book : 
Save if the door half opened, and I snatched 
A hasty glance, and still my heart leaped up, 40 
For still I hoped to see the stranger's face. 
Townsman, or aunt, or sister more beloved. 
My play-mate when we both were clothed 
alike ! 

Dear Babe, that sleepest cradled by my side. 
Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep 

calm, * 45 

Fill up the interspersed vacancies 
And momentary pauses of the thought ! 
My babe so beautiful ! it thrills my heart 
With tender gladness, thus to look at thee. 
And think that thou shalt learn far other lore, 50 
And in far other scenes ! For I was reared 
In the great city, pent 'mid cloisters dim. 
And saw nought lovely but the sky and stars. 
But thou^ my babe ! shalt wander like a breeze 
By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags 55 
Of ancient mountain, and beneath the clouds. 
Which image in their bulk both lakes and 
shores 



iFearsf in ^olituue 175 

And mountain crags : so shalt thou see and hear 

The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible 

Of that eternal language, which thy God 60 

Utters, who from eternity doth teach 

Himself in all, and all things in himself. 

Great universal Teacher ! he shall mould 

Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask. 

Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee, 65 
Whether the summer clothe the general earth 
With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing 
Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch 
Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch 
Smokes in the sun-thaw; whether the eave- 

drops fall 7© 

Heard only in the trances of the blast. 
Or if the secret ministry of frost 
Shall hang them up in silent icicles. 
Quietly shining to the quiet Moon. 

FEARS IN SOLITUDE 

WRITTEN IN APRIL 1798, DURING THE 

ALARM OF AN INVASION 

1798-1798 

A GREEN and silent spot, amid the hills, 
A small and silent dell ! O'er stiller place 
No singing sky-lark ever poised himself. 



1 76 Select poem0 of Coletiuge 

The hills are heathy, save that swelling slope, 
Which hath a gay and gorgeous covering on, 5 
All golden with the never^bloomless furze, 
Which now blooms most profusely : but the 

dell. 
Bathed by the mist, is fresh and delicate 
As vernal corn-field, or the unripe flax. 
When, through its half-transparent stalks, at 

eve, 10 

The level sunshine glimmers with green light. 
Oh ! 'tis a quiet spirit-healing nook ! 
Which all, methinks, would love ; but chiefly 

he. 
The humble man, who, in his youthful years, 
Knew just so much of folly, as had made 15 

His early manhood more securely wise ! 
Here he might lie on fern or withered heath, 
While from the singing lark (that sings unseen 
The minstrelsy that solitude loves best). 
And from the sun, and from the breezy air, 20 
Sweet influences trembled o'er his frame ; 
And he, with many feelings, many thoughts, 
Made up a meditative joy, and found 
Religious meanings in the forms of Nature ! 
And so, his senses gradually wrapt 25 

In a half sleep, he dreams of better worlds. 
And dreaming hears thee still, O singing lark ; 
That singest like an angel in the clouds ! 



iFeartf in ^oUtuDe 177 

My God ! it is a melancholy thing 
For such a man, who would full fain preserve 30 
His soul in calmness, yet perforce must feel 
For all his human brethren — O my God ! 
It weighs upon the heart, that he must think 
What uproar and what strife may now be 

stirring 
This way or that way o*er these silent hills — 35 
Invasion, and the thunder and the shout, 
And all the crash of onset ; fear and rage, 
And undetermined conflict — even now. 
Even now, perchance, and in his native isle : 
Carnage and groans beneath this blessed sun ! 40 
We have offended. Oh ! my countrymen ! 
We have off'ended very grievously, 
And been most tyrannous. From east to west 
A groan of accusation pierces Heaven ! 
The wretched plead against us ; multitudes 45 

Countless and vehement, the sons of God, 
Our brethren ! Like a cloud that travels on, 
Steam'd up from Cairo's swamps of pestilence, 
Even so, my countrymen ! have we gone forth 
And borne to distant tribes slavery and pangs, 50 
And, deadlier far, our vices, whose deep taint 
With slow perdition murders the whole man. 
His body and his soul ! Meanwhile, at home. 
All individual dignity and power 
Engulf 'd in Courts, Committees, Institutions, 55 



1 7 8 Select ipoemsf of Coleriuge 

Associations and Societies, 

A vain, speech- mouthing, speech - reporting 

Guild, 
One Benefit-Club for mutual flattery. 
We have drunk up, demure as at a grace. 
Pollutions from the brimming cup of wealth ; 60 
Contemptuous of all honourable rule. 
Yet bartering freedom and the poor man's life 
For gold, as at a market ! The sweet words 
Of Christian promise, words that even yet 
Might stem destruction, were they wisely 

preached, 65 

Are muttered o'er by men, whose tones pro- 
claim 
How flat and wearisome they feel their trade : 
Rank scoffers some, but most too indolent 
To deem them falsehoods or to know their 

truth. 
Oh ! blasphemous ! the book of life is made 70 
A superstitious instrument, on which 
We gabble o'er the oaths we mean to break ; 
For all must swear — all and in every place. 
College and wharf, council and justice-court ; 
All, all must swear, the briber and the bribed^ 75 
Merchant and lawyer, senator and priest. 
The rich, the poor, the old man and the young; 
All, all make up one scheme of perjury. 
That faith doth reel ; the very name of God 



i?ear0 in ^olituDe 179 

Sounds like a juggler's charm ; and, bold with 

joy, 80 

Forth from his dark and lonely hiding-place, 
(Portentous sight ! ) the owlet Atheism, 
Sailing on obscene wings athwart the noon. 
Drops his blue-fringed lids, and holds them 

close. 
And hooting at the glorious sun in Heaven, 85 
Cries out, ' Where is it ? ' 

Thankless too for peace, 
(Peace long preserved by fleets and perilous 

seas) 
Secure from actual warfare, we have loved 
To swell the war-whoop, passionate for war ! 
Alas ! for ages ignorant of all 90 

Its ghastlier workings, (famine or blue plague. 
Battle, or siege, or flight through wintry snows,) 
We, this whole people, have been clamorous 
For war and bloodshed ; animating sports. 
The which we pay for as a thing to talk of, 95 
Spectators and not combatants ! No guess 
Anticipative of a wrong unfelt. 
No speculation on contingency. 
However dim and vague, too vague and dim 
To yield a justifying cause ; and forth, 100 

(Stuffed out with big preamble, holy names, 
And adjurations of the God in Heaven,) 



1 80 Select IJDonnsf of Coletiuge 

We send our mandates for the certain death 
Of thousands and ten thousands ! Boys and 

girls, 
And women, that would groan to see a child 105 
Pull off an insect's leg, all read of war, 
The best amusement for our morning meal ! 
The poor wretch, who has learnt his only 

prayers 
From curses, who knows scarcely words 

enough 
To ask a blessing from his Heavenly Father, no 
Becomes a fluent phraseman, absolute 
And technical in victories and defeats. 
And all our dainty terms for fratricide ; 
Terms which we trundle smoothly o'er our 

tongues 
Like mere abstractions, empty sounds to which 
We join no feeling and attach no form ! 116 

As if the soldier died without a wound ; 
As if the fibres of this godlike frame 
Were gored without a pang ; as if the wretch, 
Who fell in battle, doing bloody deeds, 120 

Passed off to Heaven, translated and not killed ; 
As though he had no wife to pine for him. 
No God to judge him ! Therefore, evil days 
Are coming on us, O my countrymen ! 
And what if all-avenging Providence, 125 

Strong and retributive, should make us know 



iFearsf in ^oUtuUe i8i 

The meaning of our words, force us to feel 
The desolation and the agony 
Of our fierce doings ? 

Spare us yet awhile, 
Father and God ! O ! spare us yet awhile ! 130 
Oh ! let not English women drag their flight 
Fainting beneath the burthen of their babes. 
Of the sweet infants, that but yesterday 
Laughed at the breast ! Sons, brothers, hus- 
bands, all 
Who ever gazed with fondness on the forms ^35 
Which grew up with you round the same fire- 
side. 
And all who ever heard the sabbath-bells 
Without the infidel's scorn, make yourselves 

pure ! 
Stand forth ! be men ! repel an impious foe, 
Impious and false, a light yet cruel race, 140 

Who laugh away all virtue, mingling mirth 
With deeds of murder ; and still promising 
Freedom, themselves too sensual to be free. 
Poison life's amities, and cheat the heart 
Of faith and quiet hope, and all that soothes 145 
And all that lifts the spirit ! Stand we forth ; 
Render them back upon the insulted ocean. 
And let them toss as idly on its waves 
As the vile sea-weed, which some mountain-blast 



1 8 2 Select lIDoemsf of Coleriuge 

Swept from our shores ! And oh ! may we 

return 150 

Not with a drunken triumph, but with fear, 
Repenting of the wrongs with which we stung 
So fierce a foe to frenzy ! 

I have told, 
O Britons ! O my brethren ! I have told 
Most bitter truth, but without bitterness. iS5 

Nor deem my zeal or factious or mistimed ; 
For never can true courage dwell with them. 
Who, playing tricks with conscience, dare not 

look 
At their own vices. We have been too long 
Dupes of a deep delusion ! Some, belike, 160 

Groaning with restless enmity, expect 
All change from change of constituted power ; 
As if a Government had been a robe. 
On which our vice and wretchedness were 

tagged 
Like fancy-points and fringes, with the robe 165 
Pulled off at pleasure. Fondly these attach 
A radical causation to a few 
Poor drudges of chastising Providence, 
Who borrow all their hues and qualities 
From our own folly and rank wickedness, 17° 

Which gave them birth and nursed them. 

Others, meanwhile. 



irearg in ^olituUe 183 

Dote with a mad idolatry ; and all 
Who will not fall before their images, 
And yield them worship, they are enemies 
Even of their country ! 

Such have I been deemed. — 175 
But, O dear Britain ! O my Mother Isle ! 
Needs must thou prove a name most dear and 

holy 
To me, a son, a brother, and a friend, 
A husband, and a father ! who revere 
All bonds of natural love, and find them all 180 
Within the limits of thy rocky shores. 
O native Britain ! O my Mother Isle ! 
How shouldst thou prove aught else but dear 

and holy 
To me, who from thy lakes and mountain-hills. 
Thy clouds, thy quiet dales, thy rocks and seas. 
Have drunk in all my intellectual life, 186 

All sweet sensations, all ennobling thoughts, 
All adoration of the God in nature. 
All lovely and all honourable things. 
Whatever makes this mortal spirit feel 190 

The joy and greatness of its future being ? 
There lives nor form nor feeling in my soul 
Unborrowed from my country ! O divine 
And beauteous island ! thou hast been my sole 
And most magnificent temple, in the which 195 



1 84 Select potm^ of ColertUge 

I walk with awe, and sing my stately songs, 
Loving the God that made me ! — 

May my fears, 
My filial fears, be vain ! and may the vaunts 
And menace of the vengeful enemy 
Pass like the gust, that roared and died away 200 
In the distant tree : which heard, and only 

heard 
In this low dell, bow'd not the delicate grass. 

But now the gentle dew-fall sends abroad 
The fruit -like perfume of the golden furze : 
The light has left the summit of the hill, 205 

Though still a sunny gleam lies beautiful, 
Aslant the ivied beacon. Now farewell. 
Farewell, awhile, O soft and silent spot ! 
On the green sheep-track, up the heathy hill, 
Homeward I wind my way ; and lo ! recalled 210 
From bodings that have well-nigh wearied me, 
I find myself upon the brow, and pause 
Startled ! And after lonely sojourning 
In such a quiet and surrounded nook, 
This burst of prospect, here the shadowy main. 
Dim-tinted, there the mighty majesty 216 

Of that huge amphitheatre of rich 
And elmy fields, seems like society — 
Conversing with the mind, and giving it 



2:1)0 ipigtjtingale 185 

A livelier impulse and a dance of thought ! 220 

And now, beloved Stowey ! I behold 

Thy church-tower, and, methinks, the four huge 

elms 
Clustering, which mark the mansion of my 

friend ; 
And close behind them, hidden from my view, 
Is my own lowly cottage, where my babe 225 

And my babe's mother dwell in peace ! With 

light 
And quickened footsteps thitherward I tend, 
Remembering thee, O green and silent dell ! 
And grateful, that by nature's quietness 
And solitary musings, all my heart 230 

Is soften'd, and made worthy to indulge 
Love, and the thoughts that yearn for human 

kind. 

THE NIGHTINGALE 

A CONVERSATION POEM, WRITTEN IN 

APRIL 1798 

1798-1798 

No cloud, no relique of the sunken day 
Distinguishes the West, no long thin slip 
Of sullen light, no obscure trembling hues. 
Come, we will rest on this old mossy bridge ! 
You see the glimmer of the stream beneath, 5 



1 8 6 g>elect ||Doem0 of Coleritjge 

But hear no murmuring : it flows silently, 

O'er its soft bed of verdure. All is still, 

A balmy night ! and though the stars be dim, 

Yet let us think upon the vernal showers 

That gladden the green earth, and we shall find 

A pleasure in the dimness of the stars. n 

And hark ! the Nightingale begins its song, 

' Most musical, most melancholy ' bird ! 

A melancholy bird ? Oh ! idle thought ! 

In Nature there is nothing melancholy. 15 

But some night-wandering man whose heart 

was pierced 
With the remembrance of a grievous wrong. 
Or slow distemper, or neglected love, 
(And so, poor wretch ! fill'd all things with 

himself. 
And made all gentle sounds tell back the tale 20 
Of his own sorrow) he, and such as he. 
First named these notes a melancholy strain. 
And many a poet echoes the conceit ; 
Poet who hath been building up the rhyme 
When he had better far have stretched his 

limbs 25 

Beside a brook in mossy forest-dell. 
By sun or moon-light, to the influxes 
Of shapes and sounds and shifting elements 
Surrendering his whole spirit, of his song 
And of his fame forgetful ! so his fame 30 



ti^t jl^tgtjtingale 187 

Should share in Nature's immortality, 
A venerable thing ! and so his song 
Should make all Nature lovelier, and itself 
Be loved like Nature ! But 'twill not be so ; 
And youths and maidens most poetical, 35 

Who lose the deepening twilights of the spring 
In ball-rooms- and hot theatres, they still 
Full of meek sympathy must heave their sighs 
O'er Philomela's pity-pleading strains. 

My Friend, and thou, our Sister ! we have 

learnt 40 

A different lore : we may not thus profane 
Nature's sweet voices, always full of love 
And joyance ! 'Tis the merry Nightingale 
That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates 
With fast thick warble his delicious notes, 45 

As he were fearful that an April night 
Would be too short for him to utter forth 
His love-chant, and disburthen his full soul 
Of all its music ! 

And I know a grove 
Of large extent, hard by a castle huge, 50 

Which the great lord inhabits not ; and so 
This grove is wild with tangling underwood, 
And the trim walks are broken up, and grass. 
Thin grass and king-cups grow within the 
paths. 



1 88 Select ipoemsf of Colmuge 

But never elsewhere in one place I knew 55 

So many nightingales ; and far and near, 

In wood and thicket, over the wide grove, 

They answer and provoke each other's songs. 

With skirmish and capricious passagings. 

And murmurs musical and swift jug jug, 60 

And one low piping sound more sweet than 

all — 
Stirring the air with such an harmony. 
That should you close your eyes, you might 

almost 
Forget it was not day ! On moonlight bushes. 
Whose dewy leaflets are but half-disclosed, 65 

You may perchance behold them on the twigs, 
Their bright, bright eyes, their eyes both bright 

and full. 
Glistening, while many a glow-worm in the 

shade 
Lights up her love-torch. 

A most gentle Maid, 
Who dwelleth in her hospitable home 70 

Hard by the castle, and at latest eve 
(Even like a Lady vowed and dedicate 
To something more than Nature in the grove) 
Glides through the pathways ; she knows all 

their notes, 
That gentle Maid ! and oft, a moment's space, 75 



t^t jliigtitinple 189 

What time the moon was lost behind a cloud, 

Hath heard a pause of silence ; till the moon 

Emerging, hath awakened earth and sky 

With one sensation, and those wakeful birds 

Have all burst forth in choral minstrelsy, 80 

As if some sudden gale had swept at once 

A hundred airy harps ! And she hath watched 

Many a nightingale perch giddily 

On blossomy twig still swinging from the 

breeze. 
And to that motion tune his wanton song 85 

Like tipsy joy that reels with tossing head. 

Farewell, O Warbler ! till to-morrow eve. 
And you, my friends ! farewell, a short fare- 
well ! 
We have been loitering long and pleasantly, 
And now for our dear homes. — That strain 

again ! 9© 

Full fain it would delay me ! My dear babe. 
Who, capable of no articulate sound. 
Mars all things with his imitative lisp. 
How he would place his hand beside his ear, 
His little hand, the small forefinger up, 95 

And bid us listen ! And I deem it wise 
To make him Nature's play-mate. He knows 

well 
The evening-star ; and once, when he awoke 



1 90 g)elect ^jDoentfif of Coleriuge 

In most distressful mood (some inward pain 
Had made up that strange thing, an infant's 

dream), 100 

I hurried with him to our orchard-plot. 
And he beheld the moon, and, hushed at once, 
Suspends his sobs, and laughs most silently, 
While his fair eyes, that swam with undropped 

tears. 
Did glitter in the yellow moon-beam ! Well ! — 
It is a father's tale : But if that Heaven 106 

Should give me life, his childhood shall grow 

Familiar with these songs, that with the night 
He may associate joy. — Once more, farewell. 
Sweet Nightingale ! once more, my friends ! 
farewell. 

WESTPHALIAN SONG 

1799?-? 

[The following is an almost literal translation of a 
very old and very favourite song among the Westphalian 
Boors. The turn at the end is the same with one of Mr. 
Dibdin"" s excellent songs, and the air to which it is sung 
by the Boors is remarkably sweet and lively.] 

When thou to my true-love com'st 

Greet her from me kindly ; 
When she asks thee how I fare .? 

Say, folks in Heaven fair finely. 



t^t JBteit of ttje ^000 1 9 1 

When she asks, ' What ! Is he sick ? ' 
Say, dead ! — and when for sorrow 

She begins to sob and cry. 
Say, I come to-morrow. 



THE VISIT OF THE GODS 

IMITATED FROM SCHILLER 
1799 ?-i8i7 

Never, beHeve me. 
Appear the Immortals, 
Never alone : 
Scarce had I welcomed the Sorrow-beguiler, 
lacchus ! but in came Boy Cupid the Smiler ; 5 
Lo ! Phoebus the Glorious descends from his 

throne ! 
They advance, they float in, the Olympians all ! 
With Divinities fills my 
Terrestrial hall ! 

How shall I yield you 10 

Due entertainment, 
Celestial quire ? 
Me rather, bright guests ! with your wings of 

upbuoyance 
Bear aloft to your homes, to your banquets of 

joyance. 
That the roofs of Olympus may echo my lyre ! 15 



1 9 2 ^tlttt J|Doem0 of ColeriDge 

Hah ! we mount ! on their pinions they waft up 
my soul ! 

O give me the nectar ! 
O fill me the bowl ! 

Give him the nectar ! 
Pour out for the poet, 20 

Hebe ! pour free ! 
Quicken his eyes with celestial dew, 
That Styx the detested no more he may view. 
And like one of us Gods may conceit him to be ! 
Thanks, Hebe ! I quaff it ! lo Paean, I cry ! 25 
The wine of the Immortals 
Forbids me to die ! 



NAMES 
[from lessing] 

1 799-1 799 

I ask'd my fair one happy day. 
What I should call her in my lay ; 

By what sweet name from Rome or Greece ; 
Lalage, Neaera, Chloris, 
Sappho, Lesbia, or Doris, 5 

Arethusa or Lucrece. 

' Ah ! ' replied my gentle fair, 

' Beloved, what are names but air ? 



Mater llBallaD 193 

Choose thou whatever suits the line ; 
Call me Sappho, call me Chloris, ^o 

Call me Lalage or Doris, 

Only, only call me Thine.' 

WATER BALLAD 

i799?-i83i 
' Come hither, gently rowing. 

Come, bear me quickly o'er 
This stream so brightly flowing 

To yonder woodland shore. 
But vain were my endeavour 5 

To pay thee, courteous guide ; 
Row on, row on, for ever 

I'd have thee by my side. 

' Good boatman, prithee haste thee, 

I seek my father-land.' — '° 

' Say, when I there have placed thee. 

Dare I demand thy hand ? ' 
' A maiden's head can never 

So hard a point decide ; 
Row on, row on, for ever ^5 

I'd have thee by my side.' 

The happy bridal over 

The wanderer ceased to roam, 
For, seated by her lover. 



1 94 Select ^)Donn0 of Colerttige 

The boat became her home. 
And still they sang together 

As steering o'er the tide : 
' Row on through wind and weather 

For ever by my side.' 



LINES 

WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM AT ELBINGERODE, 
IN THE HARTZ FOREST 

1 799-1 799 

I STOOD on Brocken's sovran height, and saw 
Woods crowding upon woods, hills over hills, 
A surging scene, and only limited 
By the blue distance. Heavily my way 
Downward I dragged through fir-groves ever- 
more. 
Where bright green moss heaves in sepulchral 

forms 
Speckled with sunshine ; and, but seldom heard, 
The sweet bird's song became an hollow 

sound ; 
And the breeze, murmuring indivisibly. 
Preserved its solemn murmur most distinct 
From many a note of many a waterfall. 
And the brook's chatter ; 'mid whose islet- 
stones 



Ilmesf 195 

The clingy kidling with its tinkling bell 
Leaped frolicsome, or old romantic goat 
Sat, his white beard slow waving. I moved 

on 15 

In low and languid mood : for I had found 
That outward forms, the loftiest, still receive 
Their finer influence from the Life within ; — 
Fair cyphers else : fair, but of import vague 
Or unconcerning, where the heart not finds 20 
History or prophecy of friend, or child. 
Or gentle maid, our first and early love. 
Or father, or the venerable name 
Of our adored country ! O thou Queen, 
Thou delegated Deity of Earth, 25 

O dear, dear England ! how my longing eye 
Turned westward, shaping in the steady clouds 
Thy sands and high white cliflFs ! 

My native Land ! 
Filled with the thought of thee this heart was 

proud. 
Yea, mine eye swam with tears: that all the 

view 30 

From sovran Brocken, woods and woody hills, 
Floated away, like a departing dream. 
Feeble and dim ! Stranger, these impulses 
Blame thou not lightly ; nor will I profane. 
With hasty judgment or injurious doubt, 35 



196 Select |ponn0 of Colmtige 

That man's sublimer spirit, who can feel 
That God is everywhere ! the God who framed 
Mankind to be one mighty family, 
Himself our Father, and the World our Home. 



SOMETHING CHILDISH, BUT VERY 
NATURAL 

WRITTEN IN GERMANY 
1 799-1 800 

If I had but two little wings 
And were a little feathery bird. 
To you I'd fly, my dear ! 
But thoughts like these are idle things, 
And I stay here. 

But in my sleep to you I fly : 

I'm always with you in my sleep ! 

The world is all one's own. 
But then one wakes, and where am I ? 

All, all alone. 

Sleep stays not, though a monarch bids : 

So I love to wake ere break of day : 

For though my sleep be gone. 

Yet while 'tis dark, one shuts one's lids. 

And still dreams on. 



tl\t SDa^^SDream 197 



THE DAY-DREAM 

FROM AN EMIGRANT TO HIS ABSENT WIFE 
1799-1802 

If thou wert here, these tears were tears of 
light ! 

But from as sweet a vision did I start 
As ever made these eyes grow idly bright ! 

And though I weep, yet still around my heart 
A sweet and playful tenderness doth linger, 5 

Touching my heart as with an infant's finger. 

My mouth half open, like a witless man, 
I saw our couch, I saw our quiet room. 
Its shadows heaving by the fire-light gloom ; 
And o'er my lips a subtle feeling ran, 10 

All o'er my lips a soft and breeze-like feeling — 
I know not what — but had the same been 
stealing 

Upon a sleeping mother's lips, I guess 

It would have made the loving mother dream 

That she was softly bending down to kiss 15 

Her babe, that something more than babe did 
seem, 

A floating presence of its darling father. 

And yet its own dear baby self far rather ! 



198 ^tlttt l|Doem0 of Coletiuge 

Across my chest there lay a weight, so warm ! 

As if some bird had taken shelter there ; ^o 

And lo ! I seem'd to see a woman's form — 

Thine, Sara, thine ? O joy, if thine it were ! 
I gazed with stifled breath, and fear'd to stir it, 
No deeper trance e'er wrapt a yearning spirit ! 

And now, when I seem'd sure thy face to see, 25 

Thy own dear self in our own quiet home ; 
There came an elfish laugh, and waken'd me : 
'Twas Frederic, who behind my chair had 
clomb. 
And with his bright eyes at my face was peep- 
ing. 
I bless'd him, tried to laugh, and fell a-weeping ! 

LOVE 

1 799-1 799 

All thoughts, all passions, all delights. 
Whatever stirs this mortal frame. 
All are but ministers of Love, 
And feed his sacred flame. 

Oft in my waking dreams do I 5 

Live o'er again that happy hour. 
When midway on the mount I lay, 
Beside the ruined tower. 



ilotje 199 

The moonshine, stealing o*er the scene 
Had blended with the lights of eve ; 10 

And she was there, my hope, my joy, 
My own dear Genevieve ! 

She leant against the armed man, 
The statue of the armed knight ; 
She stood and listened to my lay, 15 

Amid the lingering light. 

Few sorrows hath she of her own. 
My hope ! my joy ! my Genevieve ! 
She loves me best, whene'er I sing 

The songs that make her grieve. 20 

I played a soft and doleful air, 
I sang an old and moving story — 
An old rude song, that suited well 
That ruin wild and hoary. 

She listened with a flitting blush, 25 

With downcast eyes and modest grace; 
For well she knew, I could not choose 
But gaze upon her face. 

I told her of the Knight that wore 
Upon his shield a burning brand ; 30 

And that for ten long years he wooed 
The Lady of the Land. 



200 Select |ponn0 of ColeriDge 

I told her how he pined : and ah ! 
The deep, the low, the pleading tone 
With which I sang another's love, 35 

Interpreted my own. 

She listened with a flitting blush. 
With downcast eyes, and modest grace 
And she forgave me, that I gazed 

Too fondly on her face ! 40 

But when I told the cruel scorn 
That crazed that bold and lovely Knight, 
And that he crossed the mountain-woods, 
Nor rested day nor night ; 

That sometimes from the savage den, 45 

And sometimes from the darksome shade 
And sometimes starting up at once 
In green and sunny glade, — 

There came and looked him in the face 
An angel beautiful and bright ; 50 

And that he knew it was a Fiend, 
This miserable Knight! 

And that unknowing what he did. 
He leaped amid a murderous band, 
And saved from outrage worse than death 55 
The Lady of the Land ! 



Ilotie 201 

And how she wept, and clasped his knees ; 
And how she tended him in vain — 
And ever strove to expiate 

The scorn that crazed his brain ; — 60 

And that she nursed him in a cave ; 
And how his madness went away, 
When on the yellow forest-leaves 
A dying man he lay ; — 

His dying words — but when I reached 65 

That tenderest strain of all the ditty, 
My faltering voice and pausing harp 
Disturbed her soul with pity! 

All impulses of soul and sense 
Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve; 70 

The music and the doleful tale. 
The rich and balmy eve; 

And hopes, and fears that kindle hope, 
An undistinguishable throng. 
And gentle wishes long subdued, 75 

Subdued and cherished long! 

She wept with pity and delight. 

She blushed with love, and virgin-shame ; 

And like the murmur of a dream, 

I heard her breathe my name. 80 



202 ^tltct poems; of Coleriuge 

Her bosom heaved — she stepped aside, 
As conscious of my look she stepped — 
Then suddenly, with timorous eye 
She fled to me and wept. 

She half enclosed me with her arms, 85 

She pressed me with a meek embrace ; 
And bending back her head, looked up. 
And gazed upon my face. 

'Twas partly love, and partly fear. 
And partly 'twas a bashful art, 90 

That I might rather feel, than see. 
The swelling of her heart. 

I calmed her fears, and she was calm. 
And told her love with virgin pride j 
And so I won my Genevieve, 95 

My bright and beauteous Bride. 

THE BALLAD OF THE DARK 
LADIE 

A FRAGMENT 
1799-1834 

Beneath yon birch with silver bark. 
And boughs so pendulous and fair. 
The brook falls scattered down the rock : 
And all is mossy there ! 



t^t llBallaH of t\)t Dark ilatiie 203 

And there upon the moss she sits, 5 

The Dark Ladie in silent pain ; 
The heavy tear is in her eye, 

And drops and swells again. 

Three times she sends her little page 
Up the castled mountain's breast, lo 

If he might find the Knight that wears 
The Griffin for his crest. 

The sun was sloping down the sky. 
And she had linger'd there all day, 
Counting moments, dreaming fears — 15 

Oh wherefore can he stay ? 

She hears a rustling o'er the brook. 
She sees far ofF a swinging bough ! 
' 'Tis He ! 'Tis my betrothed Knight ! 

Lord Falkland, it is Thou ! ' ao 

She springs, she clasps him round the neck, 
She sobs a thousand hopes and fears. 
Her kisses glowing on his cheeks 
She quenches with her tears. 



' My friends with rude ungentle words 25 

They scofF and bid me fly to thee ! 



204 Select l^otm^ of ColetiDge 

give me shelter in thy breast ! 

O shield and shelter me ! 

' My Henry, I have given thee much, 

1 gave what I can ne'er recall, 30 
I gave my heart, I gave my peace, 

O Heaven ! I gave thee all.' 

The Knight made answer to the Maid, 
While to his heart he held her hand, 
' Nine castles hath my noble sire, 35 

None statelier in the land. 

'The fairest one shall be my love's, 
The fairest castle of the nine ! 
Wait only till the stars peep out, 

The fairest shall be thine: 4° 

' Wait only till the hand of eve 
Hath wholly closed yon western bars. 
And through the dark we two will steal 
Beneath the twinkling stars ! ' — 

' The dark ? the dark ? No ! not the 

dark ? 45 

The twinkling stars ? How, Henry ? How ? 
O God ! 'twas in the eye of noon 
He pledged his sacred vow ! 



at Ci)risftma0 Carol 205 

' And in the eye of noon my love 
Shall lead me from my mother's door, 50 

Sweet boys and girls all clothed in white 
Strewing flowers before : 

' But first the nodding minstrels go 
With music meet for lordly bowers, 
The children next in snow-white vests, 55 

Strewing buds and flowers ! 

' And then my love and I shall pace. 
My jet black hair in pearly braids. 
Between our comely bachelors 

And blushing bridal maids.' 60 



A CHRISTMAS CAROL 
1 799-1 799 



The shepherds went their hasty way, 

And found the lowly stable-shed 
Where the Virgin-Mother lay : 

And now they checked their eager tread. 
For to the Babe, that at her bosom clung, 
A Mother's song the Virgin-Mother sung. 



2o6 Select jjDoemfl! of Colent)ge 



1 



They told her how a glorious light, 

Streaming from a heavenly throng, 
Around them shone, suspending night ! 
While sweeter than a mother's song. 
Blest Angels heralded the Saviour's birth. 
Glory to God on high ! and Peace on Earth. 

Ill 

She listened to the tale divine. 

And closer still the Babe she pressed ; 
And while she cried, the Babe is mine ! 
The milk rushed faster to her breast : 
Joy rose within her, like a summer's morn ; 
Peace, Peace on Earth ! the Prince of Peace is 
born. 

IV 

Thou Mother of the Prince of Peace, 

Poor, simple, and of low estate ! 
That strife should vanish, battle cease, 
O why should this thy soul elate ? 

Sweet Music's loudest note, the Poet's story, 

Didst thou ne'er love to hear of fame and glory ? 



And is not War a youthful king, 25 

A stately hero clad in mail ? 



^ Ct)nsfttttasf Carol 207 

Beneath his footsteps laurels spring ; 
Him Earth's majestic monarchs hail 
Their friend, their playmate ! and his bold 

bright eye 
Compels the maiden's love-confessing sigh. 30 

VI 

' Tell this in some more courtly scene, 

To maids and youths in robes of state ! 
I am a woman poor and mean. 
And therefore is my soul elate. 
War is a ruffian, all with guilt defiled, 35 

That from the aged father tears his child ! 

VII 

' A murderous fiend, by fiends adored. 

He kills the sire and starves the son ; 
The husband kills, and from her board 

Steals all his widow's toil had won ; 40 

Plunders God's world of beauty ; rends away 
All safety from the night, all comfort from the 
day. 

VIII 

' Then wisely is my soul elate. 

That strife should vanish, battle cease : 

I'm poor and of a low estate, 45 

The Mother of the Prince of Peace. 



2o8 Select 1^0tm& of Coleriuge 

Joy rises in me, like a summer's morn : 
Peace, Peace on Earth ! the Prince of Peace is 
born.' 



THEKLA'S SONG 

I 800-1 800 
The cloud doth gather, the green wood roar, 
The damsel paces along the shore ; 
The billows they tumble with might, with 

might ; 
And she flings out her voice to the darksome 
night ; 
Her bosom is swelling with sorrow ; 
The world it is empty, the heart will die. 
There's nothing to wish for beneath the sky : 
Thou Holy One, call thy child away ! 
I've lived and loved, and that was to-day — 
Make ready my grave-clothes to-morrow. 

THE KEEPSAKE 

1 800-1 802 
The tedded hay, the first fruits of the soil. 
The tedded hay and corn-sheaves in one field. 
Show summer gone, ere come. The foxglove 

tall 
Sheds its loose purple bells, or in the gust, 



t^t J^eeps^afee 209 

Or when it bends beneath the up-springing 

lark, 5 

Or mountain-finch alighting. And the rose 
(In vain the darling of successful love) 
Stands, like some boasted beauty of past years. 
The thorns remaining, and the flowers all gone. 
Nor can I find, amid my lonely walk lo 

By rivulet, or spring, or wet roadside, 
That blue and bright-eyed floweret of the brook, 
Hope's gentle gem, the sweet Forget-me-not ! 
So will not fade the flowers which Emmeline 
With delicate fingers on the snow-white silk 15 
Has worked (the flowers which most she knew 

I loved). 
And, more beloved than they, her auburn hair. 

In the cool morning twilight, early waked 
By her full bosom's joyous restlessness, 
Softly she rose, and lightly stole along, 20 

Down the slope coppice to the woodbine bower. 
Whose rich flowers, swinging in the morning 

breeze. 
Over their dim fast-moving shadows hung. 
Making a quiet image of disquiet 
In the smooth, scarcely moving river-pool. 25 

There, in that bower where first she owned her 

love. 
And let me kiss my own warm tear of joy 



2 1 o Select jpoemsf of ColetiDge 

From off her glowing cheek, she sate and 

stretched 
The silk upon the frame, and worked her name 
Between the Moss-Rose and Forget-me-not — 
Her own dear name, with her own auburn hair ! 
That forced to wander till sweet spring return, 
I yet might ne'er forget her smile, her look, 
Her voice (that even in her mirthful mood 
Has made me wish to steal away and weep). 
Nor yet the entrancement of that maiden kiss 
With which she promised, that when spring 

returned. 
She would resign one half of that dear name. 
And own thenceforth no other name but mine ! 

A STRANGER MINSTREL 

[written to MRS. ROBINSON, A FEW WEEKS 
BEFORE H£R DEATH] 

1800-1831 

As late on Skiddaw's mount I lay supine, 
Midway th' ascent, in that repose divine 
When the soul centred in the heart's recess 
Hath quaff'd its fill of Nature's loveliness. 
Yet still beside the fountain's marge will stay 

And fain would thirst again, again to quaff; 
Then when the tear, slow travelling on its way, 

Fills up the wrinkles of a silent laugh — 



3 Stranger ^inmtl 



211 



In that sweet mood of sad and humorous 

thought 
A form within me rose, within me wrought lo 

With such strong magic, that I cried aloud, 
' Thou ancient Skiddaw by thy helm of cloud, 
And by thy many-colour'd chasms deep. 
And by their shadows that for ever sleep. 
By yon small flaky mists that love to creep 15 

Along the edges of those spots of light. 
Those sunny islands on thy smooth green 
height. 
And by yon shepherds with their sheep. 
And dogs and boys, a gladsome crowd. 
That rush even now with clamour loud 20 

Sudden from forth thy topmost cloud, 
And by this laugh, and by this tear, 
I would, old Skiddaw, she were here ! 
A lady of sweet song is she. 
Her soft blue eye was made for thee ! 25 

ancient Skiddaw, by this tear, 

1 would, I would that she were here ! ' 

Then ancient Skiddaw, stern and proud. 

In sullen majesty replying. 
Thus spake from out his helm of cloud 30 

(His voice was like an echo dying !) : — 
' She dwells belike in scenes more fair. 
And scorns a mount so bleak and bare.' 



2 1 2 ^tlm J^otnas of ColeriDge 

I only sigh'd when this I heard, 

Such mournful thoughts within me stirr'd 35 

That all my heart was faint and weak, 

So sorely was I troubled ! 
No laughter wrinkled on my cheek, 

But O the tears were doubled ! 
But ancient Skiddaw green and high 40 

Heard and understood my sigh ; 
And now, in tones less stern and rude, 
As if he wish'd to end the feud, 
Spake he, the proud response renewing 
(His voice was like a monarch wooing) : — 45 
' Nay, but thou dost not know her might. 

The pinions of her soul how strong ! 
But many a stranger in my height 

Hath sung to me her magic song, 

Sending forth his ecstasy 50 

In her divinest melody. 

And hence I know her soul is free. 

She is where'er she wills to be, 

Unfetter'd by mortality ! 
Now to the " haunted -beach " can fly, 55 

Beside the threshold scourged with waves, 

Now where the maniac wildly raves, 
" Pale moon^ thou spectre of the sky / " 

No wind that hurries o'er my height 

Can travel with so swift a flight. 60 

I too, methinks, might merit 



t^\)t ^noix^^mop 213 

The presence of her spirit ! 
To me too might belong 
The honour of her song and witching mel- 
ody, 
Which most resembles me, 65 

Soft, various, and sublime. 
Exempt from wrongs of Time ! ' 

Thus spake the mighty Mount, and I 
Made answer, with a deep-drawn sigh : — 
' Thou ancient Skiddaw, by this tear, 70 

I would, I would that she were here ! * 



THE SNOW-DROP 

[a fragment] 

i8oo?-i833 



Fear thou no more, thou timid Flower ! 
Fear thou no more the winter's might. 
The whelming thaw, the ponderous shower. 
The silence of the freezing night ! 
Since Laura murmur'd o'er thy leaves 
The potent sorceries of song. 
To thee, meek Flowret ! gentler gales 
And cloudless skies belong. 



214 Select ^poem0 of Coleritige 



Her eye with tearful meanings fraught, 

My fancy saw her gaze on thee : lo 

Interpreting the spirit's thought, 

The spirit's eager sympathy, 

Now trembled with thy trembling stem 

And while thou droopedst o'er thy bed 

With sweet unconscious sympathy 15 

Inclin'd the drooping head. 

3 

She droop'd her head, she stretch'd her arm. 

She whisper'd low her witching rhymes. 

Fame unreluctant heard the charm. 

And bore thee to Pierian climes ! 20 

Fear thou no more the Matin Frost 

That sparkled on thy bed of snow : 

For there, mid laurels ever green. 

Immortal thou shalt blow. 

4 
Thy petals boast a white more soft, 25 

The spell hath so perfumed thee, 
That careless Love shall deem thee oft 
A blossom from his Myrtle tree. 
Then laughing o'er the fair deceit 
Shall race with some Etesian wind 30 



(Dtie to 8:ranquilUt^ 215 

To seek the woven arboret 
Where Laura Jies reclin'd. 

5 

All them whom Love and Fancy grace, 

When grosser eyes are clos'd in sleep, 

The gentle spirits of the place 35 

Waft up the insuperable steep, 

On whose vast summit broad and smooth 

Her nest the Phoenix Bird conceals. 

And where by cypresses o'erhung 

The heavenly Lethe steals. 40 

6 

A sea-like sound the branches breathe, 

Stirr'd by the Breeze that loiters there ; 

And all that stretch their limbs beneath. 

Forget the coil of mortal care. 

Strange mists along the margins rise, 45 

To heal the guests who thither come, 

And fit the soul to re-endure 

Its earthly martyrdom. 



ODE TO TRANQUILLITY 

1801-1801 
Tranquillity ! thou better name 
Than all the family of Fame ! 



2 1 6 Select l|Doettt0 of ColeriDge 

Thou ne'er wilt leave my riper age 

To low intrigue, or factious rage ; 

f'or oh ! dear child of thoughtful Truth, 5 

To thee I gave my early youth. 
And left the bark, and blest the steadfast shore. 
Ere yet the tempest rose and scared me with its 
roar. 

Who late and lingering seeks thy shrine, 
On him but seldom. Power divine, 10 

Thy spirit rests ! Satiety 
And Sloth, poor counterfeits of thee, 
Mock the tired worldling. Idle Hope 
And dire Remembrance interlope. 
To vex the feverish slumbers of the mind : 15 

The bubble floats before, the spectre stalks be- 
hind. 

But me thy gentle hand will lead 

At morning through the accustomed mead ; 

And in the sultry summer's heat 

Will build me up a mossy seat ; 20 

And when the gust of Autumn crowds. 

And breaks the busy moonlight clouds. 

Thou best the thought canst raise, the heart 
attune. 

Light as the busy clouds, calm as the gliding 
moon. 



SDefmion: an <DUe 217 

The feeling heart, the searching soul, 25 

To thee I dedicate the whole ! 

And while within myself I trace 

The greatness of some future race. 

Aloof with hermit-eye I scan 

The present works of present man — 30 

A wild and dream-like trade of blood and guile. 
Too foolish for a tear, too wicked for a smile ! 



DEJECTION: AN ODE 

WRITTEN APRIL 4, 1802 

Late, late yestreen I saw the new Moon, 
With the old Moon in her arms 5 
And I fear, I fear, my Master dear ! 
We shall have a deadly storm. 

Ballad of Sir Patrick Spence. 

I 

Well ! If the Bard was weather-wise, who 
made 
The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence, 
This night, so tranquil now, will not go hence 
Unroused by winds, that ply a busier trade 
Than those which mould yon cloud in lazy flakes. 
Or the dull sobbing draft, that moans and rakes 
Upon the strings of this iEolian lute. 
Which better far were mute. 
For lo ! the New-moon winter-bright ! 



2 1 8 Select ipoentfif of Coleriuge 

And overspread with phantom light, lo 

(With swimming phantom light o'erspread 
But rimmed and circled by a silver thread) 
I see the old Moon in her lap, foretelling 

The coming-on of rain and squally blast. 
And oh ! that even now the gust were swelling, 15 
And the slant night-shower driving loud and 
fast ! 
Those sounds which oft have raised me, whilst 
they awed, 
And sent my soul abroad, 
Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give, 
Might startle this dull pain, and make it move 

and live ! zo 

II 

A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear, 
A stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned grief. 
Which finds no natural outlet, no relief, 
In word, or sigh, or tear — 
O Lady ! in this wan and heartless mood, 25 

To other thoughts by yonder throstle woo'd, 
All this long eve, so balmy and serene. 
Have I been gazing on the western sky. 
And its peculiar tint of yellow green : 
And still I gaze — and with how blank an eye! 30 
And those thin clouds above, in flakes and Bars, 
That give away their motion to the stars j 



SDefettion: an (Due 219 

Those stars, that glide behind them or between, 
Now sparkling, now bedimmed, but always 

seen : 
Yon crescent Moon, as fixed as if it grew 35 

In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue ; 
I see them all so excellently fair, 
I see, not feel, how beautiful they are ! 

Ill 

My genial spirits fail ; 

And what can these avail 4° 

To lift the smothering weight from ofF my 
breast ? 

It were a vain endeavour. 

Though I should gaze for ever 
On that green light that lingers in the west : 
I may not hope from outward forms to win 45 
The passion and the life, whose fountains are 
within. 

IV 

O Lady ! we receive but what we give. 
And in our life alone does Nature live : 
Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud ! 

And would we aught behold, of higher worth, s° 
Than that inanimate cold world allowed 
To the poor loveless ever-anxious crowd. 

Ah ! from the soul itself must issue forth 



220 Select ^^oemfii of Coleriuge 

A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud 

Enveloping the Earth — 55 

And from the soul itself must there be sent 

A sweet and potent voice, of its own birth, 
Of all sweet sounds the life and element ! 



O pure of heart ! thou need'st not ask of me 
What this strong music in the soul may be ! 60 
What, and wherein it doth exist. 
This light, this glory, this fair luminous mist, 
This beautiful and beauty-making power. 

Joy, virtuous Lady ! Joy that ne'er was 

given, 
Save to the pure, and in their purest hour, 65 

Life, and Life's effluence, cloud at once and 

shower, 
Joy, Lady ! is the spirit and the power. 
Which wedding Nature to us gives in dower, 

A new Earth and new Heaven. 
Undreamt of by the sensual and the proud — 70 
Joy is the sweet voice, Joy the luminous 

cloud — 
We in ourselves rejoice ! 
And thence flows all that charms or ear or 

sight. 
All melodies the echoes of that voice. 
All colours a suffusion from that light. 75 



jSDeiection: an (Due 221 

VI 

There was a time when, though my path was 
rough, 
This joy within me dallied with distress. 
And all misfortunes were but as the stuff 

Whence Fancy made me dreams of happmess : 
For hope grew round me, like the twining vme, 80 
And fruits, and foliage, not my own, seemed 

mine. 
But now afflictions bow me down to earth: 
Nor care I that they rob me of my mirth ; 

But oh ! each visitation 
Suspends what nature gave me at my birth, 85 

My shaping spirit of Imagination. 
For not to think of what I needs must feel, 

But to be still and patient, all I can ; 
And haply by abstruse research to steal 

From my own nature all the natural man — 90 
This was my sole resource, my only plan: 
Till that which suits a part infects the whole, 
And now is almost grown the habit of my soul. 

VII 

Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my mind. 

Reality's dark dream ! 
I turn from you, and listen to the wind. 

Which long has raved unnoticed. What a 
scream 



222 g>elect ipoentflf of Colerttige 

Of agony by torture lengthened out 
That lute sent forth ! Thou Wind, that rav'st 
without, 
Bare crag, or mountain-tairn, or blasted tree. 
Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb, loi 
Or lonely house, long held the witches' home, 

Methinks were fitter instruments for thee. 
Mad Lutanist ! who in this month of showers, 
Of dark-brown gardens, and of peeping flowers, 
Mak'st Devils' yule, with worse than wintry 

song, io6 

The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves 
among. 
Thou Actor, perfect in all tragic sounds ! 
Thou mighty Poet, even to frenzy bold ! 

What tell'st thou now about ? no 

'Tis of the rushing of an host in rout. 
With groans of trampled men, with smarting 
wounds — 
At once they groan with pain, and shudder 

with the cold ! 
But hush ! there is a pause of deepest silence ! 

And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd, 115 
With groans, and tremulous shudderings — all 
is over — 
It tells another tale, with sounds less deep 
and loud ! 
A tale of less affright, 



SDefection : an (DUe 223 

And tempered with delight, 
As Otway's self had framed the tender lay, 120 
'Tis of a little child 
Upon a lonesome wild, 
Not far from home, but she hath lost her 

way: 
And now moans low in bitter grief and fear. 
And now screams loud, and hopes to make her 

mother hear. 125 

VIII 

'Tis midnight, but small thoughts have I of 

sleep : 
Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep ! 
Visit her, gentle Sleep ! with wings of healing. 

And may this storm be but a mountain-birth. 
May all the stars hang bright above her dwell- 
ing, 130 
Silent as though they watched the sleeping 
Earth ! 
With light heart may she rise. 
Gay fancy, cheerful eyes, 
Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice ; 
To her may all things live, from pole to pole, 135 
Their life the eddying of her living soul ! 

O simple spirit, guided from above, 
Dear Lady ! friend devoutest of my choice. 
Thus mayest thou ever, evermore rejoice. 



224 Select l^otmsi of ColeriDge 

THE PICTURE 

OR THE lover's RESOLUTION 
1 802-1 802 

Through weeds and thorns, and matted under- 
wood 
I force my way ; now climb, and now descend 
O'er rocks, or bare or mossy, with wild foot 
Crushing the purple whorts ; while oft unseen. 
Hurrying along the drifted forest-leaves. 
The scared snake rustles. Onward still I toil, 
I know not, ask not whither ! A new joy, 
Lovely as light, sudden as summer gust. 
And gladsome as the first-born of the spring. 
Beckons me on, or follows from behind. 
Playmate, or guide ! The master-passion 

quelled, 
I feel that I am free. With dun-red bark 
The fir-trees, and the unfrequent slender oak, 
Forth from this tangle wild of bush and brake 
Soar up, and form a melancholy vault 
High o'er me, murmuring like a distant sea. 

Here Wisdom might resort, and here Remorse ; 
Here too the love-lorn man, who, sick in soul. 
And of this busy human heart aweary. 
Worships the spirit of unconscious life 
In tree or wild-flower. — Gentle lunatic ! 



ti)t ^picture 225 

If so he might not wholly cease to be, 

He would far rather not be that he is ; 

But would be something that he knows not of, 

In winds or waters, or among the rocks ! 25 

But hence, fond wretch ! breathe not conta- 
gion here ! 
No myrtle-walks are these : these are no groves 
Where Love dare loiter ! If in sullen mood 
He should stray hither, the low stumps shall 

gore 
His dainty feet, the briar and the thorn 30 

Make his plumes haggard. Like a wounded 

bird 
Easily caught, ensnare him, O ye Nymphs, 
Ye Oreads chaste, ye dusky Dryades ! 
And you, ye Earth-winds ! you that make at 

morn 
The dew-drops quiver on the spiders' webs ! 35 
You, O ye wingless Airs ! that creep between 
The rigid stems of heath and bitten furze. 
Within whose scanty shade, at summer-noon. 
The mother-sheep hath worn a hollow bed — 
Ye, that now cool her fleece with dropless damp, 40 
Now pant and murmur with her feeding lamb. 
Chase, chase him, all ye Fays, and elfin 

Gnomes ! 
With prickles sharper than his darts bemock 



226 g)elect ^)Doem0 of ColeriDge 

His little Godship, making him perforce 
Creep through a thorn-bush on yon hedgehog's 
back. 



45 



This is my hour of triumph ! I can now 
With my own fancies play the merry fool, 
And laugh away worse folly, being free. 
Here will I seat myself, beside this old. 
Hollow, and weedy oak, which ivy-twine 5° 

Clothes as with net-work : here will couch my 

limbs. 
Close by this river, in this silent shade. 
As safe and sacred from the step of man 
As an invisible world — unheard, unseen, 
And listening only to the pebbly brook 55 

That murmurs with a dead, yet tinkling sound; 
Or to the bees, that in the neighbouring trunk 
Make honey-hoards. The breeze, that visits 

me. 
Was never Love's accomplice, never raised 
The tendril ringlets from the maiden's brow, 6o 
And the blue, delicate veins above her cheek ; 
Ne'er played the wanton — never half disclosed 
The maiden's snowy bosom, scattering thence 
Eye-poisons for some love-distempered youth. 
Who ne'er henceforth may see an aspen-grove 65 
Shiver in sunshine, but his feeble heart 
Shall flow away like a dissolving thing. 



t^t IDicture 227 

Sweet breeze ! thou only, if I guess aright, 

Liftest the feathers of the robin's breast. 

That swells its little breast, so full of song, 7° 

Singing above me, on the mountain-ash. 

And thou too, desert stream ! no pool of thine. 

Though clear as lake in latest summer-eve. 

Did e'er reflect the stately virgin's robe. 

The face, the form divine, the downcast look 75 

Contemplative ! Behold ! her open palm 

Presses her cheek and brow ! her elbow rests 

On the bare branch of half-uprooted tree. 

That leans towards its mirror ! Who erewhile 

Had from her countenance turned, or looked by 

stealth 80 

(For fear is true-love's cruel nurse), he now 
With steadfast gaze and unoffending eye. 
Worships the watery idol, dreaming hopes 
Delicious to the soul, but fleeting, vain. 
E'en as that phantom-world on which he gazed. 
But not unheeded gazed : for see, ah ! see, 86 

The sportive tyrant with her left hand plucks 
The heads of tall flowers that behind her grow, 
Lychnis, and willow-herb, and fox-glove bells: 
And suddenly, as one that toys with time, 90 

Scatters them on the pool ! Then all the 

charm 
Is broken — all that phantom world so fair 
Vanishes, and a thousand circlets spread, 



228 Select J^otma of ColeriDge 

And each mis-shapes the other. Stay awhile, 
Poor youth, who scarcely dar*st lift up thine 

eyes ! 95 

The stream will soon renew its smoothness, 

soon 
The visions will return ! And lo ! he stays : 
And soon the fragments dim of lovely forms 
Come trembling back, unite, and now once 

more 
The pool becomes a mirror ; and behold loo 

Each wildflower on the marge inverted there, 
And there the half-uprooted tree — but where, 
O where the virgin's snowy arm, that leaned 
On its bare branch ? He turns, and she is 

gone ! 
Homeward she steals through many a woodland 

maze 105 

Which he shall seek in vain. Ill-fated youth ! 
Go, day by day, and waste thy manly prime 
In mad love-yearning by the vacant brook. 
Till sickly thoughts bewitch thine eyes, and 

thou 
Behold'st her shadow still abiding there, no 

The Naiad of the mirror ! 

Not to thee, 
O wild and desert stream ! belongs this tale : 
Gloomy and dark art thou — the crowded 

firs 



t\it IDtcture 229 

spire from thy shores, and stretch across thy 

bed, 
Making thee doleful as a cavern-well : n5 

Save when the shy king-fishers build their nest 
On thy steep banks, no loves hast thou, wild 

stream ! 

This be my chosen haunt — -emancipate 
From passion's dreams, a freeman, and alone, 
I rise and trace its devious course. O lead, 120 
Lead me to deeper shades and lonelier glooms. 
Lo ! stealing through the canopy of firs. 
How fair the sunshine spots that mossy rock, 
Isle of the river, whose disparted waves 
Dart off asunder with an angry sound, 125 

How soon to re-unite ! And see ! they meet, 
Each in the other lost and found : and see 
Placeless, as spirits, one soft water-sun 
Throbbing within them, heart at once and eye ! 
With its soft neighbourhood of filmy clouds, 130 
The stains and shadings of forgotten tears. 
Dimness o'erswum with lustre ! Such the hour 
Of deep enjoyment, following love's brief feuds; 
And hark, the noise of a near waterfall ! 
I pass forth into light — I find myself 135 

Beneath a weeping birch (most beautiful 
Of forest trees, the Lady of the Woods), 
Hard by the brink of a tall weedy rock 



230 Select l^otmsi of ColeriDge 

That overbrows the cataract. How bursts 
The landscape on my sight ! Two crescent 

hills 140 

Fold in behind each other, and so make 
A circular vale, and land-locked, as might seem, 
With brook and bridge, and grey stone cottages. 
Half hid by rocks and fruit-trees. At my feet. 
The whortle-berries are bedewed with spray, 145 
Dashed upwards by the furious waterfall. 
How solemnly the pendent ivy-mass 
Swings in its winnow : All the air is calm. 
The smoke from cottage-chimneys, tinged with 

light. 
Rises in columns ; from this house alone, 150 

Close by the waterfall, the column slants. 
And feels its ceaseless breeze. But what is 

this ? 
That cottage, with its slanting chimney-smoke, 
And close beside its porch a sleeping child, 
His dear head pillow'd on a sleeping dog — iS5 
One arm between its fore-legs, and the hand 
Holds loosely its small handful of wild-flowers, 
Unfilleted, and of unequal lengths. 
A curious picture, with a master's haste 
Sketched on a strip of pinky-silver skin, 160 

Peeled from the birchen bark ! Divinest maid ! 
Yon bark her canvas, and those purple berries 
Her pencil ! See, the juice is scarcely dried 



On the fine skin ! She has been newly here ; 
And lo ! yon patch of heath has been her 

couch — ^^5 

The pressure still remains ! O blessed couch ! 
For this may'st thou flower early, and the sun, 
Slanting at eve, rest bright, and linger long 
Upon thy purple bells ! O Isabel ! 
Daughter of genius ! stateliest of our maids ! 170 
More beautiful than whom Alcaeus wooed, 
The Lesbian woman of immortal song ! 
O child of genius ! stately, beautiful. 
And full of love to all, save only me, 
And not ungentle e'en to me ! My heart, 175 

Why beats it thus ? Through yonder coppice- 
wood 

Needs must the pathway turn, that leads straight- 
way 

On to her father's house. She is alone ! 

The night draws on — such ways are hard to 
hit — 

And fit it is I should restore this sketch, 180 

Dropt unawares no doubt. Why should I 
yearn 

To keep the relique ? 'twill but idly feed 

The passion that consumes me. Let me haste ! 

The picture in my hand which she has left ; 

She cannot blame me that I follow'd her : 185 

And I may be her guide the long wood through. 



232 g)elect ^poenttf of ColeriDge 

HYMN BEFORE SUN-RISE, IN THE 
VALE OF CHAMOUNI 

1802-1802 

Besides the Rivers, Arve and Arveiron, which have 
their sources in the foot of Mont Blanc, five conspicuous 
torrents rush down its sides ; and within a few paces of 
the Glaciers, the Gentiana Major grows in immense 
numbers, with its < flowers of loveliest blue. ' 

Hast thou a charm to stay the morning-star 
In his steep course ? So long he seems to 

pause 
On thy bald awful head, O sovran Blanc ! 
The Arve and Arveiron at thy base 
Rave ceaselessly ; but thou, most awful Form ! 5 
Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines, 
How silently ! Around thee and above 
Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black. 
An ebon mass : methinks thou piercest it, 
As with a wedge ! But when I look again, 10 
It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine, 
Thy habitation from eternity ! 

dread and silent Mount ! I gazed upon 

thee. 
Till thou, still present to the bodily sense. 
Didst vanish from my thought : entranced in 

prayer 15 

1 worshipped the Invisible alone. 



fli^^mn before ^un^ri^e 233 

Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody, 
So sweet, we know not we are listening to it. 
Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my 

Thought, 
Yea, with my Life and Life's own secret joy : 20 
Till the dilating Soul, enrapt, transfused. 
Into the mighty vision passing — there 
As in her natural form, swelled vast to Heaven ! 

Awake, my soul ! not only passive praise 
Thou owest ! not alone these swelling tears, 25 
Mute thanks and secret ecstasy ! Awake, 
Voice of sweet song ! Awake, my heart, 

awake ! 
Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my Hymn. 

Thou first and chief, sole sovereign of the- 

Vale ! 
O struggling with the darkness all the night, 3° 
And visited all night by troops of stars, 
Or when they climb the sky or when they 

sink : 
Companion of the morning-star at dawn, 
Thyself Earth's rosy star, and of the dawn 
Co-herald : wake, O wake, and utter praise ! 35 
Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in Earth ? 
Who fill'd thy countenance with rosy light? 
Who made thee parent of perpetual streams ? 



234 Select JDoems; of Coleritjge 

And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad ! 
Who called you forth from night and utter death, 40 
From dark and icy caverns called you forth, 
Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks, 
For ever shattered and the same for ever ? 
Who gave you your invulnerable life. 
Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your 

Py, 45 

Unceasing thunder and eternal foam ? 
And who commanded (and the silence came), 
Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest ? 

Ye Ice-falls ! ye that from the mountain's brow 
Adown enormous ravines slope amain — 50 

Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice. 
And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge ! 
Motionless torrents ! silent cataracts ! 
Who made you glorious as the Gates of Heaven 
Beneath the keen full moon ? Who bade the sun 55 
Clothe you with rainbows ? Who, with living 

flowers 
Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet ? — 
God ! let the torrents, like a shout of nations. 
Answer ! and let the ice-plains echo, God ! 
God ! sing ye meadow-streams with gladsome 

voice ! 60 

Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like 

sounds ! 



J^^mn before g^un^ri^e 235 

And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow, 
And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God ! 

Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost ! 
Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest ! 65 
Ye eagles, play-mates of the mountain-storm ! 
Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds ! 
Ye signs and wonders of the element ! 
Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise ! 

Thou too, hoar Mount ! with thy sky- 
pointing peaks, 70 
Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard. 
Shoots downward, glittering through the pure 

serene 
Into the depth of clouds, that veil thy breast — 
Thou too again, stupendous Mountain ! thou 
That as I raise my head, awhile bowed low 75 
In adoration, upward from thy base 
Slow travelling with dim eyes suffused with tears, 
Solemnly seemest, like a vapoury cloud, 
To rise before me — Rise, O ever rise, 
Rise like a cloud of incense from the Earth ! 80 
Thou kingly Spirit throned among the hills. 
Thou dread ambassador from Earth to Heaven, 
Great Hierarch ! tell thou the silent sky, 
And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun 
Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God. ^5 



236 ^tlttt J^otma of ColertUge 



AN ODE TO THE RAIN 

COMPOSED BEFORE DAYLIGHT, ON THE MORNING 
APPOINTED FOR THE DEPARTURE OF A VERY 
WORTHY, BUT NOT VERY PLEASANT VISITOR, 
WHOM IT WAS FEARED THE RAIN MIGHT 
DETAIN 

1802-1802 



I KNOW it is dark; and though I have lain, 
Awake, as I guess, an hour or twain, 
I have not once open'd the lids of my eyes, 
But I lie in the dark, as a blind man lies. 

Rain ! that I lie listening to, 5 
You're but a doleful sound at best : 

1 owe you little thanks, 'tis true. 
For breaking thus my needful rest ! 
Yet if, as soon as it is light, 

O Rain ! you will but take your flight, 10 

ril neither rail, nor malice keep. 
Though sick and sore for want of sleep. 
But only now, for this one day. 
Do go, dear Rain ! do go away ! 

II 

O Rain! with your dull two-fold sound, 15 

The clash hard by, and the murmur all round ! 



0n (Di5e to t\)t Hain 237 

You know, if you know aught, that we. 

Both night and day, but ill agree : 

For days and months, and almost years. 

Have limp'd on through this vale of tears, ao 

Since body of mine, and rainy weather, 

Have lived on easy terms together. 

Yet if, as soon as it is light, 

O Rain ! you will but take your flight. 

Though you should come again to-morrow, ^5 

And bring with you both pain and sorrow ; 

Though stomach should sicken and knees should 

swell — 
ril nothing speak of you but well. 
But only now for this one day. 
Do go, dear Rain ! do go away ! 3° 

III 
Dear Rain ! I ne'er refused to say 
You're a good creature in your way ; 
Nay, I could write a book myself. 
Would fit a parson's lower shelf, 
Showing how very good you are. — 35 

What then ? sometimes it must be fair ! 
And if sometimes, why not to-day ? 
Do go, dear Rain ! do go away ! 

IV 

Dear Rain ! if Fve been cold and shy, 
Take no offence ! Til tell you why. 4© 



238 Select ^)Doem0 of Coleriuge 

A dear old Friend e'en nbw is here, 

And with him came my sister dear ; 

After long absence now first met, 

Long months by pain and grief beset — 

We three dear friends ! in truth, we groan 45 

Impatiently to be alone. 

We three, you mark ! and not one more ! 

The strong wish makes my spirit sore. 

We have so much to talk about, 

So many sad things to let out ; 50 

So many tears in our eye-corners. 

Sitting like little Jacky Homers — 

In short, as soon as it is day. 

Do go, dear Rain ! do go away. 



And this I'll swear to you, dear Rain ! 55 

Whenever you shall come again. 
Be you as dull as e'er you could 
(And by the bye 'tis understood. 
You're not so pleasant as you're good). 
Yet, knowing well your worth and place, 60 
I'll welcome you with cheerful face ; 
And though you stay'd a week or more, 
Were ten times duller than before ; 
Yet with kind heart, and right good will, 
I'll sit and listen to you still; 65 

Nor should you go away, dear Rain ! 



3Infifctiption for a ifountain 239 

Uninvited to remain. 

But only now, for this one day, 

Do go, dear Rain ! do go away. 

INSCRIPTION FOR A FOUNTAIN ON 
A HEATH 

1 802-1 802 
This Sycamore, oft musical with bees, — 
Such tents the Patriarchs loved! O long un- 
harmed 
May all its aged boughs o'er-canopy 
The small round basin, which this jutting 

stone 
Keeps pure from falling leaves ! Long may 

the Spring, 5 

Quietly as a sleeping infant's breath. 
Send up cold waters to the traveller 
With soft and even pulse ! Nor ever cease 
Yon tiny cone of sand its soundless dance. 
Which at the bottom, like a Fairy's Page, lo 

As merry and no taller, dances still. 
Nor wrinkles the smooth surface of the Fount. 
Here twilight is and coolness : here is moss, 
A soft seat, and a deep and ample shade. 
Thou may'st toil far and find no second tree. 15 
Drink, Pilgrim, here ! Here rest ! and if thy 
heart 



240 Select Ifpotm^ of ColeriDge 

Be innocent, here too shalt thou refresh 
Thy spirit, listening to some gentle sound. 
Or passing gale or hum of murmuring bees ! 



ANSWER TO A CHILD'S QUESTION 

I 802-1 802 
Do you ask what the birds say ? The Sparrow, 

the Dove, 
The Linnet and Thrush say, ' I love and I 

love ! ' 
In the winter they're silent — the wind is so 

strong ; 
What it says, I don't know, but it sings a loud 

song. 
But green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny 

warm weather, 5 

And singing, and loving — all come back to- 
gether. 
[' I love, and I love,' almost all the birds say 
From sunrise to star-rise, so gladsome are 

they !] 
But the Lark is so brimful of gladness and 

love. 
The green fields below him, the blue sky above, 10 
That he sings, and he sings j and for ever sings 

he — 
' I love my Love, and my Love loves me ! * 



t^t J^Kina ot ^Ittp 241 

['Tis no wonder that he's full of joy to the 

brim, 
When he loves his Love, and his Love loves 

him!] 



THE PAINS OF SLEEP 

1803-1817 
Ere on my bed my limbs I lay, 
It hath not been my use to pray 
With moving lips or bended knees ; 
But silently, by slow degrees. 
My spirit I to Love compose, 5 

In humble trust mine eye-lids close. 
With reverential resignation. 
No wish conceived, no thought exprest, 
Only a seme of supplication ; 
A sense o'er all my soul imprest 10 

That I am weak, yet not unblest, 
Since in me, round me, every where 
Eternal Strength and Wisdom are. 

But yester-night I pray'd aloud 

In anguish and in agony, 15 

Up-starting from the fiendish crowd 

Of shapes and thoughts that tortured me : 

A lurid light, a trampling throng. 

Sense of intolerable wrong. 



242 ^tlttt l^otm^ of Colmtige 

And whom I scorned, those only strong ! 20 

Thirst of revenge, the powerless will 

Still baffled, and yet burning still ! 

Desire with loathing strangely mixed 

On wild or hateful objects fixed. 

Fantastic passions ! maddening brawl ! 25 

And shame and terror over all ! 

Deeds to be hid which were not hid. 

Which all confused I could not know 

Whether I suffered, or I did : 

For all seemM guilt, remorse or woe, 30 

My own or others still the same 

Life-stifling fear, soul-stifling shame ! 

So two nights passed : the night's dismay 

Saddened and stunned the coming day. 

Sleep, the wide blessing, seemed to me 35 

Distemper's worst calamity. 

The third night, when my own loud scream 

Had waked me from the fiendish dream, 

O'ercome with sufferings strange and wild, 

I wept as I had been a child ; 40 

And having thus by tears subdued 

My anguish to a milder mood. 

Such punishments, I said, were due 

To natures deepliest stained with sin : 

For aye entempesting anew 45 

The unfathomable hell within 



a ^xtxim 243 

The horror of their deeds to view. 

To know and loathe, yet wish and do ! 

Such griefs with such men well agree. 

But wherefore, wherefore fall on me ? 50 

To be beloved is all I need. 

And whom I love, I love indeed. 



PHANTOM 

1 804-1 8 34 

All look and likeness caught from earth, 
All accident of kin and birth, 
Had pass'd away. There was no trace 
Of aught on that illumined face, 
Upraised beneath the rifted stone 
But of one spirit all her own ; — 
She, she herself, and only she. 
Shone through her body visibly. 

A SUNSET 

1805-? 

Upon the mountain's edge with light touch 

resting, 
There a brief while the globe of splendour sits 
And seems a creature of the earth, but soon. 
More changeful than the Moon, 
To wane fantastic his great orb submits, 



244 ^tltct JJDoemfif of ColeriJ)ge 

Or cone or mow of fire : till sinking slowly 
Even to a star at length he lessens wholly. 

Abrupt, as Spirits vanish, he is sunk ! 

A soul-like breeze possesses all the wood. 

The boughs, the sprays have stood 
As motionless as stands the ancient trunk ! 
But every leaf through all the forest flutters, 
And deep the cavern of the fountain mutters. 

MS. 

WHAT IS LIFE? 

1805-1829 
Resembles life what once was deem'd of light. 
Too ample in itself for human sight ? 
An absolute self — an element ungrounded — 
All that we see, all colours of all shade 
By encroach of darkness made ? — 
Is very life by consciousness unbounded ? 
And all the thoughts, pains, joys of mortal breath, 
A war-embrace of wrestling life and death ? 

CONSTANCY TO AN IDEAL 
OBJECT 

1805?-! 828 
Since all that beat about in Nature's range. 
Or veer or vanish ; why should'st thou remain 



Cons^tanc^ to an 31t)eal (Bhitct 245 

The only constant In a world of change, 

yearning Thought ! that liv'st but in the brain ? 
Call to the Hours, that in the distance play, 5 
The faery people of the future day 

Fond Thought ! not one of all that shining swarm 
Will breathe on thee with life-enkindling breath, 
Till when, like strangers shelt'ring from a storm, 
Hope and Despair meet in the porch of Death ! 10 
Yet still thou haunt'st me ; and though well I see, 
She is not thou, and only thou art she, 
Still, still as though some dear embodied Good, 
Some living Love before my eyes there stood 
With answering look a ready ear to lend, 15 

1 mourn to thee and say — ' Ah ! loveliest 

friend ! 
That this the meed of all my toils might be. 
To have a home, an English home, and thee ! * 
Vain repetition ! Home and Thou are one. 
The peacefull'st cot, the moon shall shine upon, 20 
Lulled by the thrush and wakened by the lark, 
Without thee were but a becalmed bark. 
Whose helmsman on an ocean waste and wide 
Sits mute and pale his mouldering helm beside. 

And art thou nothing ? Such thou art, as when 25 
The woodman winding westward up the glen 
At wintry dawn, where o'er the sheep-track's 
maze 



246 ^tlttt l^otmfS of Coleriuge 

The viewless snow-mist weaves a glist'ning 

haze. 
Sees full before him, gliding without tread, 
An image with a glory round its head ; 
The enamoured rustic worships its fair hues, 
Nor knows he makes the shadow, he pursues ! 

THE BLOSSOMING OF THE 
SOLITARY DATE-TREE 

1805-1828 

A LAMENT 

I seem to have an indistinct recollection of having read either in 
one of the ponderous tomes of George of Venice, or in some other 
compilation from the uninspired Hebrew writers, an apologue or 
Rabbinical tradition to the following purpose : 

While our first parents stood before their offended Maker, and 
the last words of the sentence were yet sounding in Adam's ear, the 
guileful false serpent, a counterfeit and a usurper from the begin- 
ning, presumptuously took on himself the character of advocate or 
mediator, and pretending to intercede for Adam, exclaimed : ' Nay, 
Lord, in thy justice, not so ! for the man was the least in fault. 
Rather let the Woman return at once to the dust, and let Adam 
remain in this thy Paradise.' And the word of the Most High 
answered Satan : ' T/ie tender mercies of the ivicked are cruel. 
Treacherous Fiend ! if with guilt like thine, it had been possible 
for thee to have the heart of a Man, and to feel the yearning of a 
human soul for its counterpart, the sentence, which thou now coun- 
sellest, should have been inflicted on thyself.' 

The title of the following poem was suggested by a fact men- 
tioned by Linnaeus, of a date-tree in a nobleman's garden which 
year after year had put forth a full show of blossoms, but never pro- 
duced fruit, till a branch from another date-tree had been conveyed 
from a distance of some hundred leagues. The first leaf of the MS. 



liBlosf^oming of tlie SDate^tree 247 

from which the poem has been transcribed, and which contained 
the two or three introductory stanzas, is wanting : and the author 
has in vain taxed his memory to repair the loss. But a rude draught 
of the poem contains the substance of the stanzas, and the reader 
is requested to receive it as the substitute. It is not impossible, that 
some congenial spirit, whose years do not exceed those of the Author 
at the time the poem was written, may find a pleasure in restoring 
the Lament to its original integrity by a reduction of the thoughts 
to the requisite metre. 

S. T. C. 



Beneath the blaze of a tropical sun the moun- 
tain peaks are the Thrones of Frost, through 
the absence of objects to reflect the rays. ' What 
no one with us shares, seems scarce our own.' 
The presence of a one, 

The best belov'd, who loveth me the best, 

is for the heart, what the supporting air from 
within is for the hollow globe with its suspended 
car. Deprive it of this, and all without, that 
would have buoyed it aloft even to the seat of 
the gods, becomes a burthen and crushes it into 
flatness. 

2 

The finer the sense for the beautiful and the 
lovely, and the fairer and lovelier the object pre- 
sented to the sense ; the more exquisite the in- 
dividual's capacity of joy, and the more ample 
his means and opportunities of enjoyment, the 



248 Select ipoemsi of Colmoge 

more heavily will he feel the ache of solitariness, 
the more unsubstantial becomes the feast spread 
around him. What matters it, whether in fact 
the viands and the ministering graces are shadowy 
or real, to him who has not hand to grasp nor 
arms to embrace them ? 23 

3 

Imagination ; honourable aims ; 

Free commune with the choir that cannot 

die ; 25 

Science and song ; delight in little things. 
The buoyant child surviving in the man ; 
Fields, forests, ancient mountains, ocean, sky. 
With all their voices — O dare I accuse 
My earthly lot as guilty of my spleen, 30 

Or call my destiny niggard ! O no ! no ! 
It is her largeness, and her overflow. 
Which being incomplete, disquieteth me so ! 

4 
For never touch of gladness stirs my heart. 
But tim'rously beginning to rejoice 35 

Like a blind Arab, that from sleep doth start 
In lonesome tent, I listen for thy voice. 
Beloved ! 'tis not thine; thou art not there ! 
Then melts the bubble into idle air. 
And wishing without hope I restlessly despair. 40 



t\)on^\)t ,^ugge0teD b^ a Witfs) 249 

5 

The mother with anticipated glee 

Smiles o'er the child, that, standing by her chair 

And flatt'ning its round cheek upon her knee, 

Looks up, and doth its rosy lips prepare 

To mock the coming sounds. At that sweet 

sight 45 

She hears her own voice with a new delight ; 
And if the babe perchance should lisp the notes 

aright, 

6 

Then is she tenfold gladder than before ! 
But should disease or chance the darling take, 
What then avail those songs, which sweet of yore 50 
Were only sweet for their sweet echo's sake ? 
Dear maid ! no prattler at a mother's knee 
Was e'er so dearly prized as I prize thee : 
Why was I made for Love and Love denied to 
me? 

A THOUGHT SUGGESTED BY A 
VIEW 

OF SADDLEBACK IN CUMBERLAND 

i 

1806-1833 ] 

On stern Blencartha's perilous height 
The winds are tyrannous and strong; 



250 ^tlttt l|Donn0 of ColeriDge 

And flashing forth unsteady light 
From stern Blencartha's skiey height, 

As loud the torrents throng ! 
Beneath the moon, in gentle weather. 
They bind the earth and sky together. 
But oh ! the sky and all its forms, how 

quiet ! 
The things that seek the earth, how full of 
noise and riot ! 



AD VILMUM AXIOLOGUM 

1806-1893 ? 

This be the meed, that thy song creates a 

thousand-fold echo ! 
Sweet as the warble of woods, that awakes at 

the gale of the morning ! 
List ! the Hearts of the Pure, like caves in the 

ancient mountains 
Deep, deep in the Bosom, a.nd /rom the Bosom 

resound it. 
Each with a different tone, complete or in 

musical fragments — 
All have welcomed thy Voice, and receive and 

retain and prolong it ! 

This is the word of the Lord ! it is spoken and 
Beings Eternal 




^J^^^Ut^^TT^f^*^^^^ 



AFTER THE PORTRAIT BY HANCOCK 
PAINTED IN WORDSWORTH'S TWENTY-EIGHTH YEAR. 



^0 a Gentleman 251 

Live and are borne as an Infant, the Eternal 

begets the Immortal, 
Love is the Spirit of Life, and Music the Life 

of the Spirit ! 

MS. 



TO A GENTLEMAN 

COMPOSED ON THE NIGHT AFTER HIS RE- 
CITATION OF A POEM ON THE GROWTH OF 
AN INDIVIDUAL MIND 

1807-1815 

Friend of the wise ! and Teacher of the 

Good ! 
Into my heart have I received that Lay 
More than historic, that prophetic Lay 
Wherein (high theme by thee first sung aright) 
Of the foundations and the building up 
Of a Human Spirit thou hast dared to tell 
What may be told, to the understanding mind 
Revealable ; and what within the mind 
By vital breathings secret as the soul 
Of vernal growth, oft quickens in the heart 
Thoughts all too deep for words ! — 

Theme hard as high ! 
Of smiles spontaneous, and mysterious fears 
(The first-born they of Reason and twin-birth), 



252 Select ^poems? of Colerioge 

Of tides obedient to external force, 

And currents self-determined, as might seem, 15 

Or by some inner Power ; of moments awful, 

Now in thy inner life, and now abroad. 

When power streamed from thee, and thy soul 

received 
The light reflected, as a light bestowed — 
Of fancies fair, and milder hours of youth, 20 

Hyblean murmurs of poetic thought 
Industrious in its joy, in vales and glens 
Native or outland, lakes and famous hills \ 
Or on the lonely high-road, when the stars 
Were rising ; or by secret mountain-streams, 25 
The guides and the companions of thy way ! 

Of more than Fancy, of the Social Sense 
Distending wide, and man beloved as man. 
Where France in all her towns lay vibrating 
Like some becalmed bark beneath the burst 30 

Of Heaven's immediate thunder, when no 

cloud 
Is visible, or shadow on the main. 
For thou wert there, thine own brows gar- 
landed. 
Amid the tremor of a realm aglow. 
Amid a mighty nation jubilant, 35 

When from the general heart of human kind 
Hope sprang forth like a full-born Deity ! 



• 



io a Gentleman 253 

Of that dear Hope afflicted and struck 

down, 
So summoned homeward, thenceforth calm and 

sure 
From the dread watch-tower of man's absolute 

self, 40 

With light unwaning on her eyes, to look 
Far on — herself a glory to behold, 
The Angel of the vision ! Then (last strain) 
Of Duty, chosen Laws controlling choice. 
Action and joy ! — An orphic song indeed, 45 

A song divine of high and passionate thoughts 
To their own music chaunted ! 

O great Bard ! 
Ere yet that last strain dying awed the air. 
With stedfast eye I viewed thee in the choir 
Of ever-enduring men. The truly great 50 

Have all one age, and from one visible space 
Shed influence! They, both in power and act, 
Are permanent, and Time is not with them^ 
Save as it worktih for them, they in it. 
Nor less a sacred Roll, than those of old, 55 

And to be placed, as they, with gradual fame 
Among the archives of mankind, thy work 
Makes audible a linked lay of Truth, 
Of Truth profound a sweet continuous lay, 
Not learnt, but native, her own natural notes ! 60 



254 Select iponnsf of ColeriDge 

Ah ! as I listenM with a heart forlorn, 

The pulses of my being beat anew : 

And even as life returns upon the drowned, 

Life's joy rekindling roused a throng of pains — 

Keen pangs of Love, awakening as a babe 65 

Turbulent, with an outcry in the heart ; 

And fears self-willed, that shunned the eye of 

hope ; 
And hope that scarce would know itself from 

fear ; 
Sense of past youth, and manhood come in 

vain. 
And genius given, and knowledge won in vain ; 70 
And all which I had culled in wood-walks 

wild. 
And all which patient toil had reared, and all. 
Commune with thee had opened out — but 

flowers 
Strewed on my corse, and borne upon my bier, 
In the same cofEn, for the self-same grave! 75 

That way no more ! and ill beseems it me, 
Who came a welcomer in herald's guise. 
Singing of glory, and futurity. 
To wander back on such unhealthful road. 
Plucking the poisons of self-harm ! And ill 80 
Such intertwine beseems triumphal wreaths 
Strew'd before thy advancing ! 



to a Gentleman 255 

Nor do thou, 
Sage Bard ! impair the memory of that hour 
Of thy communion with my nobler mind 
By pity or grief, already felt too long ! 85 

Nor let my words import more blame than 

needs. 
The tumult rose and ceased : for Peace is nigh 
Where wisdom's voice has found a listening 

heart. 
Amid the howl of more than wintry storms. 
The halcyon hears the voice of vernal hours 9° 
Already on the wing. 

Eve following eve. 
Dear tranquil time, when the sweet sense of 

Home 
Is sweetest ! moments for their own sake hailed 
And more desired, more precious, for thy song. 
In silence listening, like a devout child, 95 

My soul lay passive, by thy various strain 
Driven as in surges now beneath the stars, 
With momentary stars of my own birth. 
Fair constellated foam, still darting off 
Into the darkness ; now a tranquil sea, 100 

Outspread and bright, yet swelling to the moon. 

And when — O Friend ! my comforter and 
guide ! 



256 Select ^poems? of Coleriuge 

Strong in thyself, and powerful to give 

strength ! — 
Thy long sustained Song finally closed, 
And thy deep voice had ceased — yet thou 

thyself 105 

Wert still before my eyes, and round us both 
That happy vision of beloved faces — 
Scarce conscious, and yet conscious of its close 
I sate, my being blended in one thought 
(Thought was it ? or aspiration ? or resolve ?) "o 
Absorbed, yet hanging still upon the sound — 
And when I rose, I found myself in prayer. 



A DAY-DREAM 

i8o7?-i828 
My eyes make pictures, when they are shut : 

I see a fountain, large and fair, 
A willow and a ruined hut, 

And thee, and me and Mary there. 
O Mary ! make thy gentle lap our pillow ! 5 

Bend o'er us, like a bower, my beautiful green 
willow ! 

A wild-rose roofs the ruined shed. 
And that and summer well agree : 

And lo ! where Mary leans her head. 

Two dear names carved upon the tree ! 10 



1 



S[>a^^2r>ream 257 

And Mary's tears, they are not tears of sorrow : 
Our sister and our friend will both be here to- 
morrow. 

'Twas day ! but now few, large, and bright, 
The stars are round the crescent moon ! 
And now it is a dark warm night, 15 

The balmiest of the month of June ! 
A glow-worm fall'n, and on the marge re- 
mounting 
Shines, and its shadow shines, fit stars for our 
sweet fountain. 

O ever — ever be thou blest ! 

For dearly, Asra ! love I thee ! 20 

This brooding warmth across my breast. 
This depth of tranquil bliss — ah, me! 
Fount, tree and shed are gone, I know not 

whither. 
But in one quiet room we three are still together. 

The shadows dance upon the wall, 25 

By the still dancing fire-flames made; 
And now they slumber moveless all ! 
And now they melt to one deep shade ! 
But not from me shall this mild darkness steal 

thee : 
I dream thee with mine eyes, and at my heart I 

feel thee ! 30 



258 Select IJDonnsf of ColeriDge 

Thine eyelash on my cheek doth play — 

'Tis Mary's hand upon my brow ! 
But let me check this tender lay 

Which none may hear but she and 
thou! 
Like the still hive at quiet midnight hum- 
ming, 35 
Murmur it to yourselves, ye two beloved wo- 
men ! 



RECOLLECTIONS OF LOVE 

1807?-! 81 7 
I 

How warm this woodland wild recess ! 
Love surely hath been breathing here : 
And this sweet bed of heath, my dear ! 

Swells up, then sinks with faint caress, 
As if to have you yet more near. 

II 

Eight springs have flown, since last I lay 
On sea-ward Quantock's heathy hills, 
Where quiet sounds from hidden rills 

Float here and there, like things astray. 
And high o'er head the sky-lark shrills. 



KecoUectiottfif of JLol3e 259 



III 



No voice as yet had made the air 
Be music with your name ; yet why 
That asking look ? that yearning sigh ? 

That sense of promise every where ? 

Beloved ! flew your spirit by ? 15 



IV 



As when a mother doth explore 

The rose-mark on her long-lost child, 
I met, I loved you, maiden mild ! 

As whom I long had loved before — 
So deeply had I been beguiled. 



You stood before me like a thought, 

A dream remembered in a dream. 

But when those meek eyes first did seem 
To tell me. Love within you wrought — 

O Greta, dear domestic stream ! ^5 

VI 

Has not, since then, Love's prompture deep, 

Has not Love's whisper evermore 

Been ceaseless, as thy gentle roar ? 
Sole voice, when other voices sleep. 

Dear under-song in Clamour's hour. 30 



26o Select IDoems; of ColeriDge 

A TOMBLESS EPITAPH 

1809 ?-i8o9 
'Tis true, Idoloclastes Satyrane ! 
(So call him, for so mingling blame with praise 
And smiles with anxious looks, his earliest 

friends. 
Masking his birth-name, wont to character 
His wild-wood fancy and impetuous zeal) 
'Tis true that, passionate for ancient truths. 
And honouring with religious love the Great 
Of elder times, he hated to excess. 
With an unquiet and intolerant scorn. 
The hollow puppets of an hollow age. 
Ever idolatrous, and changing ever 
Its worthless idols ! Learning, power, and time, 
(Too much of all) thus wasting in vain war 
Of fervid colloquy. Sickness, 'tis true. 
Whole years of weary days, besieged him close. 
Even to the gates and inlets of his life ! 
But it is true, no less, that strenuous, firm. 
And with a natural gladness, he maintained 
The citadel unconquered, and in joy 
Was strong to follow the delightful Muse. 
For not a hidden path, that to the shades 
Of the beloved Parnassian forest leads. 
Lurked undiscovered by him ; not a rill 
There issues from the fount of Hippocrene, 



iO 

1 



IDottrait of ^it George Wtmmont 261 

But he had traced it upward to its source, 25 

Through open glade, dark glen, and secret dell. 
Knew the gay wild flowers on its banks, and 

culled 
Its med'cinable herbs. Yea, oft alone, 
Piercing the long-neglected holy cave, 
The haunt obscure of old Philosophy, " 30 

He bade with lifted torch its starry walls 
Sparkle, as erst they sparkled to the flame 
Of odorous lamps tended by Saint and Sage. 
O framed for calmer times and nobler hearts ! 
O studious Poet, eloquent for truth ! 35 

Philosopher ! contending wealth and death. 
Yet docile, childlike, full of Life and Love ! 
Here, rather than on monumental stone. 
This record of thy worth thy Friend inscribes, 
Thoughtful, with quiet tears upon his cheek. 40 

PORTRAIT OF SIR GEORGE BEAU- 
MONT 

1814-1817 
Zulimez {speaking of Alvar in the third person). 
Such was the noble Spaniard's own rela- 
tion. 
He told me, too, how in his early youth. 
And his first travels, 'twas his choice or chance 
To make long sojourn in sea-wedded Venice; 



262 Select l^otm& of Coleriuge 

There won the love of that divine old man. 
Courted by mightiest kings, the famous Titian ! 
Who, like a second and more lovely Nature, 
By the sweet mystery of lines and colours 
Changed the blank canvas to a magic mirror, 
That made the Absent present ; and to Shadows lo 
Gave light, depth, substance, bloom, yea, 

thought and motion. 
He loved the old man, and revered his art : 
And though of noblest birth and ample for- 
tune. 
The young enthusiast thought it no scorn 
But this inalienable ornament. 
To be his pupil, and with filial zeal 
By practice to appropriate the sage lessons. 
Which the gay, smiling old man gladly gave. 
The Art, he honoured thus, requited him : 
And in the following and calamitous years ao 

Beguiled the hours of his captivity. 

Alhadra. And then he framed this picture ? 
and unaided 
By arts unlawful, spell, or talisman ! 

Alvar. A potent spell, a mighty talisman ! 
The imperishable memory of the deed, 25 

Sustained by love, and grief, and indignation ! 
So vivid were the forms within his brain. 
His very eyes, when shut, made pictures of 
them ! 



J 



Jaunting ^ong 263 

GLYCINE'S SONG 

1815-1817 
A SUNNY shaft did I behold, 

From sky to earth it slanted : 
And poised therein a bird so bold — 

Sweet bird, thou wert enchanted ! 

He sunk, he rose, he twinkled, he trolled 5 

Within that shaft of sunny mist ; 
His eyes of fire, his beak of gold, 

All else of amethyst ! 

And thus he sang : ' Adieu ! adieu ! 
Love's dreams prove seldom true. 10 

The blossoms they make no delay : 
The sparkling dew-drops will not stay. 
Sweet month of May, 
We must away ; 

Far, far away! *5 

To-day ! to-day ! 

HUNTING SONG 

1815-1817 
Up, up ! ye dames, and lasses gay ! 
To the meadows trip away. 
'Tis you must tend the flocks this morn. 
And scare the small birds from the corn. 

Not a soul at home may stay : 5 



264 ^tlttt IJDonns; of Colmuge 

For the shepherds must go 
With lance and bow 
To hunt the wolf in the woods to-day. 

Leave the hearth and leave the house 
To the cricket and the mouse : 10 

Find grannam out a sunny seat, 
With babe and lambkin at her feet. 
Not a soul at home may stay : 
For the shepherds must go 
With lance and bow 15 

To hunt the wolf in the woods to-day. 



TIME, REAL AND IMAGINARY 

AN ALLEGORY 
1815-1817 

On the wide level of a mountain's head, 
(I knew not where, but 'twas some faery place) 
Their pinions, ostrich-like, for sails out-spread. 
Two lovely children run an endless race, 

A sister and a brother ! 5 

This far outstript the other ; 
Yet ever runs she with reverted face, 
And looks and listens for the boy behind : 

For he, alas ! is blind ! 
O'er rough and smooth with even step he passed, 10 
And knows not whether he be first or last. 



THE KNIGHT'S TOMB 

i8i7?-i834 
Where is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn ? 
Where may the grave of that good man be ? — 
By the side of a spring, on the breast of Hel- 

vellyn, 
Under the twigs of a young birch tree ! 
The oak that in summer w^as sweet to hear, 
And rustled its leaves in the fall of the year. 
And \vhistled and roar'd in the winter alone. 
Is gone, — and the birch in its stead is grown. — 
The Knight's bones are dust. 
And his good sword rust ; — 
His soul is with the saints, I trust. 

FANCY IN NUBIBUS 

OR THE POET IN THE CLOUDS 
1819-1819 

O ! IT is pleasant, with a heart at ease, 

Just after sunset, or by moonlight skies. 
To make the shifting clouds be what you please. 

Or let the easily persuaded eyes 
Own each quaint likeness issuing from the mould 

Of a friend's fancy ; or with head bent low 
And cheek aslant see rivers flow of gold 

'Twixt crimson banks j and then, a traveller, 

go 



266 Select poems? of Coleriuge 

From mount to mount through Cloudland, gor- 
geous land ! 
Or list'ning to the tide, with closed sight, 
Be that blind bard, who on the Chian strand 
By those deep sounds possessed with inward 
light. 
Beheld the Iliad and the Odyssee 

Rise to the swelling of the voiceful sea. 



TO NATURE 

i82o?-i836 
It may indeed be phantasy when I 
Essay to draw from all created things 
Deep, heartfelt, inward joy that closely clings ; 
And trace in leaves and flowers that round me 

lie 
Lessons of love and earnest piety. 
So let it be ; and if the wide world rings 
In mock of this belief, it brings 
Nor fear, nor grief, nor vain perplexity. 
So will I build my altar in the fields. 
And the blue sky my fretted dome shall be. 
And the sweet fragrance that the wild flower 

yields 
Shall be the incense I will yield to Thee, 
Thee only God! and thou shalt not despise 
Even me, the priest of this poor sacrifice. 



[I^outl^ auD 0ge 267 

YOUTH AND AGE 

1823-1828 
Verse, a breeze mid blossoms straying, 
Where Hope clung feeding, like a bee — 
Both were mine! Life went a-maying 
With Nature, Hope, and Poesy, 

When I was young ! 5 

When I was young ? — Ah, woful When ! 

Ah ! for the change 'twixt Now and Then ! 

This breathing house not built with hands. 

This body that does me grievous wrong. 

O'er aery cliffs and glittering sands, 10 

How lightly then it flashed along : — 

Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore, 

On winding lakes and rivers wide. 

That ask no aid of sail or oar. 

That fear no spite of wind or tide ! iS 

Nought cared this body for wind or weather 

When Youth and I lived in't together. 

Flowers are lovely ; Love is flower-like ; 

Friendship is a sheltering tree ; 

O ! the joys, that came down shower-like, 20 

Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty, 

Ere I was old ! 

Ere I was old ? Ah woful Ere, 

W^hich tells me, Youth's no longer here ! 



268 Select ^ppems! of Colerttige 

Youth ! for years so many and sweet, 25 
'Tis known, that Thou and I were one, 

ril think it but a fond conceit — 

It cannot be that Thou art gone ! 

Thy vesper-bell hath not yet toll'd : — 

And thou wert aye a masker bold ! 30 

What strange disguise hast now put on. 

To make believe^ that thou art gone ? 

1 see these locks in silvery slips. 
This drooping gait, this altered size : 

But Spring-tide blossoms on thy lips, 35 

And tears take sunshine from thine eyes ! 
Life is but thought : so think I will 
That Youth and I are house-mates still. 

Dew-drops are the gems of morning. 

But the tears of mournful eve ! 40 

Where no hope is, life's a warning 

That only serves to make us grieve. 

When we are old : 

That only serves to make us grieve 

With oft and tedious taking-leave, 45 

Like some poor nigh-related guest. 

That may not rudely be dismist ; 

Yet hath outstay'd his welcome while, 

And tells the jest without the smile. 



aiice 2r>u Cloflf 269 

LOVE'S FIRST HOPE 

1824-1834 
O FAIR is Love's first hope to gentle mind ! 
As Eve's first star thro' fleecy cloudlet peeping ; 
And sw^eeter than the gentle south-vv^est vi^ind, 
O'er willowy meads, and shadow'd waters 

creeping, 
And Ceres' golden fields ; — the sultry hind 
Meets it with brow uplift, and stays his reaping. 

ALICE DU CLOS 

OR THE FORKED TONGUE 
A BALLAD 
i825?-i834 
' One word with two meanings is the traitor's shield and shaft : 
and a slit tongue be his blazon ! ' 

Caucasian Pronjerb, 

' The Sun is not yet risen, 

But the dawn lies red on the dew : 

Lord Julian has stolen from the hunters away. 

Is seeking. Lady, for you. 

Put on your dress of green. 

Your buskins and your quiver ; 
Lord Julian is a hasty man, 

Long waiting brook'd he never. 
I dare not doubt him, that he means 



270 Select UDoenis; of Coleriuge 

To wed you on a day, lo 

Your lord and master for to be, 
And you his lady gay. 

Lady ! throw your book aside ! 

1 would not that my Lord should chide.* 

Thus spake Sir Hugh the vassal knight 15 

To Alice, child of old Du Clos, 
As spotless fair, as airy light 

As that moon-shiny doe. 
The gold star on its brow, her sire's ancestral 

crest ! 
For ere the lark had left his nest, 20 

She in the garden bower below 
Sate loosely wrapt in maiden white. 
Her face half drooping from the sight, 

A snow-drop on a tuft of snow ! 

O close your eyes, and strive to see 2$ 

The studious maid, with book on knee, — 

Ah ! earliest-open'd flower ; 
While yet with keen unblunted light 
The morning star shone opposite 

The lattice of her bower — 30 

Alone of all the starry host. 

As if in prideful scorn 
Of flight and fear he stay'd behind, 

To brave th' advancing morn. 



Met 2r>u Clo0 271 

! Alice could read passing well, 35 
And she was conning then 

Dan Ovid's mazy tale of loves, 
And gods, and beasts, and men. 

The vassal's speech, his taunting vein, 

It thriird like venom thro' her brain ; 40 

Yet never from the book 
She rais'd her head, nor did she deign 

The knight a single look. 

' OfF, traitor friend ! how dar'st thou fix 
Thy wanton gaze on me ? 45 

And why, against my earnest suit. 
Does Julian send by thee ? 

' Go, tell thy Lord, that slow is sure : 
Fair speed his shafts to-day ! 

1 follow here a stronger lure, 50 

And chase a gentler prey.' 

She said : and with a baleful smile 

The vassal knight reel'd ofF — 
Like a huge billow from a bark 

Toil'd in the deep sea-trough, 55 

That shouldering sideways in mid plunge, 

Is travers'd by a flash. 
And staggering onward, leaves the ear 

With dull and distant crash. 



272 ^rlett l^otmii of Coleriuge 

And Alice sate with troubled mien 60 

A moment ; for the scoff was keen, 

And thro' her veins did shiver ! 
Then rose and donn'd her dress of green, 

Her buskins and her quiver. 

There stands the flow'ring may-thorn tree ! 65 
From thro' the veiling mist you see 

The black and shadowy stem ; — 
Smit by the sun the mist in glee 
Dissolves to lightsome jewelry — 

Each blossom hath its gem ! 7° 

With tear-drop glittering to a smile, 
The gay maid on the garden-stile 

Mimics the hunter's shout. 
' Hip ! Florian, hip ! To horse, to horse ! 

Go, bring the palfrey out. 75 

' My Julian's out with all his clan, 

And, bonny boy, you wis, 
Lord Julian is a hasty man. 

Who comes late, comes amiss.' 

Now Florian was a stripling squire, 80 

A gallant boy of Spain, 
That toss'd his head in joy and pride, 
Behind his Lady fair to ride. 

But blush'd to hold her train. 



^lice 2r>u Closf 273 

The huntress is in her dress of green, — 85 

And forth they go ; she with her bow, 

Her buskins and her quiver ! — 
The squire — no younger e'er was seen — 
With restless arm and laughing een, 

He makes his javelin quiver. 90 

And had* not Ellen stayM the race, 
And stopp'd to see, a moment's space. 

The whole great globe of light 
Give the last parting kiss-like touch 
To the eastern ridge, it lack'd not much, 95 

They had o'erta'en the knight. 

It chanced that up the covert lane, 

Where Julian waiting stood, 
A neighbour knight prick'd on to join 

The huntsmen in the wood. 100 

And with him must Lord Julian go, 
Tho' with an anger'd mind : 

Betroth'd not wedded to his bride, 

In vain he sought, 'twixt shame and pride, 
Excuse to stay behind. 10^ 

He bit his lip, he wrung his glove. 
He look'd around, he look'd above. 
But pretext none could find or frame. 



2 74 Select poem0 of Colmuge 

Alas ! alas ! and well-a-day ! 
It grieves me sore to think, to say, 
That names so seldom meet with Love, 
Yet Love wants courage without a name ! 

Straight from the forest's skirt the trees 

O'er-branching, made an aisle, 
Where hermit old might pace and chaunt 

As in a minster's pile. 

From underneath its leafy screen, 

And from the twilight shade. 
You pass at once into a green, 

A green and lightsome glade. 

And there Lord Julian sate on steed ; 

Behind him, in a round. 
Stood knight and squire, and menial train ; 
Against the leash the greyhounds strain ; 

The horses paw'd the ground. 

When up the alley green. Sir Hugh 

Spurr'd in upon the sward. 
And mute, without a word, did he 

Fall in behind his lord. 

Lord Julian turn'd his steed half round, — 
' What ! doth not Alice deign 



Met SDu Closi 275 

To accept your loving convoy, knight ? 
Or doth she fear our woodland sleight, 
And joins us on the plain ? ' 

With stifled tones the knight replied, 135 

And look'd askance on either side, — 

' Nay, let the hunt proceed ! — 
The Lady's message that I bear, 
I guess would scantly please your ear, 

And less deserves your heed. 140 

' You sent betimes. Not yet unbarr'd 

I found the middle door ; — 
Two stirrers only met my eyes. 

Fair Alice, and one more. 

' I came unlook'd for : and, it seem'd, i4S 

In an unwelcome hour ; 
And found the daughter of Du Clos 

Within the latticed bower. 

' But hush ! the rest may wait. If lost. 

No great loss, I divine ; 150 

And idle words will better suit 
A fair maid's lips than mine.* 

' God's wrath ! speak out, man,' JuHan cried, 
O'ermaster'd by the sudden smart ; — 



276 Select ijDoems of ColeriDge 

And feigning wrath, sharp, blunt, and rude, 155 
The knight his subtle shift pursued. — 
' Scowl not at me ; command my skill. 
To lure your hawk back, if you will. 
But not a woman's heart. 

' " Go ! (said she) tell him, — slow is sure ; 160 

Fair speed his shafts to-day ! 
I follow here a stronger lure. 

And chase a gentler prey." 

' The game, pardie, was full in sight, 

That then did, if I saw aright, 165 

The fair dame's eyes engage ; 
For turning, as I took my ways, 
I saw them fix'd with steadfast gaze 

Full on her wanton page.' 

The last word of the traitor knight 170 

It had but entered Julian's ear, — 
From two o'erarching oaks between. 
With glist'ning helm-like cap is seen. 

Borne on in giddy cheer, 

A youth, that ill his steed can guide ; 175 

Yet with reverted face doth ride. 

As answering to a voice. 
That seems at once to laugh and chide — 



2[>ttt^ ^urtjibing ^elf^lLobe 277 

' Not mine, dear mistress/ still he cried, 

' 'Tis this mad filly's choice.' i8o 

With sudden bound, beyond the boy. 
See ! see ! that face of hope and joy. 

That regal front ! those cheeks aglow ! 
Thou needed'st but the crescent sheen, 
A quiver'd Dian to have been, 185 

Thou lovely child of old Du Clos ! 

Dark as a dream Lord Julian stood, 
Swift as a dream, from forth the wood. 

Sprang on the plighted Maid ! 
With fatal aim, and frantic force, 19° 

The shaft was hurl'd ! — a lifeless corse, 
Fair Alice from her vaulting horse 

Lies bleeding on the glade. 



DUTY SURVIVING SELF-LOVE 

THE ONLY SURE FRIEND OF DECLINING LIFE 

A SOLILOQUY 

1826-1828 

Unchanged within, to see all changed with- 
out, 
Is a blank lot and hard to bear, no doubt. 
Yet why at others' wanings should'st thou fret ? 



278 ^tkct ^ponn0 of Colmuge 

Then only might'st thou feel a just regret, 
Hadst thou withheld thy love or hid thy light 
In selfish forethought of neglect and slight. 
O wiselier then, from feeble yearnings freed, 
TVhile^ and on whom^ thou may'st — shine on ! 

nor heed 
Whether the object by reflected light 
Return thy radiance or absorb it quite : 
And though thou notest from thy safe recess 
Old friends burn dim, like lamps in noisome 

air. 
Love them for what they are ; nor love them 

less, 
Because to thee they are not what they were. 

WORK WITHOUT HOPE 

LINES COMPOSED 21ST FEBRUARY 1827 
1827-1828 

All Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their 

lair — 
The bees are stirring — birds are on the 

wing — 
And Winter slumbering in the open air, 
Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring ! 
And I the while, the sole unbusy thing. 
Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor 

sing. 



♦anu mt 31 ^atD ^im ^tra^ ' 279 

Yet well I ken the banks where amaranths 

blow, 
Have traced the fount whence streams of nectar 

flow. 
Bloom, O ye amaranths ! bloom for whom ye 

may. 
For me ye bloom not ! Glide, rich streams, 

away! 
With lips unbrightened, wreathless brow, I 

stroll : 
And would you learn the spells that drowse my 

soul ? 
Work without Hope draws nectar in a sieve. 
And Hope without an object cannot live. 



'AND OFT I SAW HIM STRAY' 

1828-1835 

' And oft I saw him stray. 
The bells of fox-glove in his hand — and ever 
And anon he to his ear would hold a blade 
Of that stiff grass that 'mong the heath-flower 

grows. 
Which made a subtle kind of melody, 
Most like the apparition of a breeze. 
Singing with its thin voice in shadowy worlds.' 



28o Select jponnsf of Coleriuge 

THE GARDEN OF BOCCACCIO 

1828-1829 
Of late, in one of those most weary hours, 
When life seems emptied of all genial powers, 
A dreary mood, which he who ne'er has known 
May bless his happy lot, I sate alone ; 
And, from the numbing spell to win relief, 5 

Call'd on the Past for thought of glee or grief. 
In vain ! bereft alike of grief and glee, 
I sate and cow'r'd o'er my own vacancy ! 
And as I watch'd the dull continuous ache. 
Which, all else slumb'ring, seem'd alone to 

wake ; 10 

Friend ! long wont to notice yet conceal. 
And soothe by silence what words cannot heal, 

1 but half saw that quiet hand of thine 
Place on my desk this exquisite design. 
Boccaccio's Garden and its faery, 15 
The love, the joyaunce, and the gallantry ! 

An Idyll, with Boccaccio's spirit warm. 
Framed in the silent poesy of form. 
Like flocks adown a newly-bathed steep 

Emerging from a mist : or like a stream 20 

Of music soft that not dispels the sleep. 

But casts in happier moulds the slumberer's 
dream. 
Gazed by an idle eye with silent might 



t\)t ^aruen of llBoccactio 28 1 

The picture stole upon my inward sight. 

A tremulous warmth crept gradual o'er my 

chest, 25 

As though an infant's finger touch'd my breast. 
And one by one (I know not whence) were 

brought 
All spirits of power that most had stirr'd my 

thought 
In selfless boyhood, on a new world tost 
Of wonder, and in its own fancies lost ; 30 

Or charm'd my youth, that, kindled from 

above. 
Loved ere it loved, and sought a form for love ; 
Or lent a lustre to the earnest scan 
Of manhood, musing what and whence is man ! 
Wild strain of Scalds, that in the sea- worn caves 35 
Rehearsed their war-spell to the winds and 

waves ; 
Or fateful hymn of those prophetic maids. 
That call'd on Hertha in deep forest glades ; 
Or minstrel lay, that cheer'd the baron's feast ; 
Or rhyme of city pomp, of monk and priest, 40 
Judge, mayor, and many a guild in long array. 
To high-church pacing on the great saint's day. 
And many a verse which to myself I sang. 
That woke the tear yet stole away the pang. 
Of hopes which in lamenting I renew'd. 45 

And last, a matron now, of sober mien, 



282 Select l^omii of ColettOge 

Yet radiant still and with no earthly sheen, 
Whom as a faery child my childhood woo'd 
Even in my dawn of thought — Philosophy ; 
Though then unconscious of herself, pardie, 50 
She bore no other name than Poesy ; 
And, like a gift from heaven, in lifeful glee, 
That had but newly left a mother's knee. 
Prattled and play'd with bird and flower, and 

stone. 
As if with elfin playfellows well known, 55 

And life reveal'd to innocence alone. 

Thanks, gentle artist ! now I can descry 

Thy fair creation with a mastering eye. 

And all awake ! And now in fix'd gaze stand. 

Now wander through the Eden of thy hand ; 60 

Praise the green arches, on the fountain clear 

See fragment shadows of the crossing deer ; 

And with that serviceable nymph I stoop 

The crystal from its restless pool to scoop. 

I see no longer ! I myself am there, ^5 

Sit on the ground-sward, and the banquet share. 

'Tis I, that sweep that lute's love-echoing strings. 

And gaze upon the maid who gazing sings; 

Or pause and listen to the tinkling bells 

From the high tower, and think that there she 

dwells. 70 

With old Boccaccio's soul I stand possesst. 



t\)t ^atuen of Boccaccio 283 

And breathe an air like life, that swells my 

chest. 
The brightness of the world, O thou once free. 
And always fair, rare land of courtesy ! 
O Florence ! with the Tuscan fields and hills 75 
And famous Arno, fed with all their rills ; 
Thou brightest star of star-bright Italy ! 
Rich, ornate, populous, all treasures thine. 
The golden corn, the olive, and the vine. 
Fair cities, gallant mansions, castles old, 80 

And forests, where beside his leafy hold 
The sullen boar hath heard the distant horn. 
And whets his tusks against the gnarled thorn ; 
Palladian palace with its storied halls ; 
Fountains, where Love lies listening to their 

falls ; 85 

Gardens, where flings the bridge its airy span. 
And Nature makes her happy home with man j 
Where many a gorgeous flower is duly fed 
With its own rill, on its own spangled bed. 
And wreathes the marble urn, or leans its head, 9° 
A mimic mourner, that with veil withdrawn 
Weeps liquid gems, the presents of the dawn ; — 
Thine all delights, and every muse is thine ; 
And more than all, the embrace and intertwine 
Of all with all in gay and twinkling dance ! 95 

Mid gods of Greece and warriors of romance, 
See ! Boccace sits, unfolding on his knees 



284 Select potntsi of Coleridge 

The new-found roll of old Maeonides ; 

But from his mantle's fold, and near the heart, 

Peers Ovid's Holy Book of Love's sweet smart ! 

O all-enjoying and all-blending sage, loi 

Long be it mine to con thy mazy page, 
Where, half conceal'd, the eye of fancy views 
Fauns, nymphs, and winged saints, all gracious 
to thy muse ! 

Still in thy garden let me watch their pranks, 105 
And see in Dian's vest between the ranks 
Of the trim vines, some maid that half be- 
lieves 
The vestal fires, of which her lover grieves. 
With that sly satyr peeping through the leaves ! 



LOVE, HOPE, AND PATIENCE IN 
EDUCATION 

I 8 29-1 8 30 

O'er wayward childhood would'stthou hold firm 

rule, 
And sun thee in the light of happy faces ; 
Love, Hope, and Patience, these must be thy 

graces. 
And in thine own heart let them first keep 

school. 



!lot)e, fQopt, anu l^ntimtt 285 

For as old Atlas on his broad neck places 5 

Heaven's starry globe, and there sustains it ; — 

so 
Do these upbear the little world below 
Of Education, — Patience, Love, and Hope. 
Methinks, I see them group'd in seemly show. 
The straiten'd arms upraised, the palms aslope, lo 
And robes that touching as adown they flow, 
Distinctly blend, like snow emboss'd in snow. 

O part them never ! If Hope prostrate lie, 

Love too will sink and die. 
But Love is subtle, and doth proof derive 15 

From her own life that Hope is yet alive ; 
And bending o'er, with soul-transfusing eyes, 
And the soft murmurs of the mother dove, 
Wooes back the fleeting spirit, and half sup- 
plies ; — 
Thus Love repays to Hope what Hope first gave 

to Love. 20 

Yet haply there will come a weary day. 
When overtask'd at length 
Both Love and Hope beneath the load give 

way. 
Then with a statue's smile, a statue's strength. 
Stands the mute sister. Patience, nothing loth, 25 
And both supporting does the work of both. 



286 ^riect ^poems; of ColeriDge 

LINES 

WRITTEN IN COMMONPLACE BOOK OF MISS BAR- 
BOUR, DAUGHTER OF THE MINISTER OF THE 
U. S. A. TO ENGLAND 

1829-1829 

Child of my muse ! in Barbour's gentle hand 
Go cross the main : thou seek'st no foreign land : 
'Tis not the clod beneath our feet we name 
Our country. Each heaven-sanctioned tie the 

same, 
Laws, manners, language, faith, ancestral blood. 
Domestic honour, awe of womanhood : — 
With kindling pride thou wilt rejoice to see 
Britain with elbow-room and doubly free ! 
Go seek thy countrymen ! and if one scar 
Still linger of that fratricidal war. 
Look to the maid who brings thee from afar ; 
Be thou the olive-leaf and she the dove. 
And say I greet thee with a brother's love ! 

PHANTOM OR FACT 

A DIALOGUE IN VERSE 

1830?-! 834? 

AUTHOR 

A LOVELY form there sate beside my bed. 
And such a feeding calm its presence shed, 



lpi)antom or iFact 287 

A tender love so pure from earthly leaven, 
That I unnethe the fancy might control, 
'Twas my own spirit newly come from hea- 
ven, 5 
Wooing its gentle way into my soul ! 
But ah ! the change — It had not stirr'd, and 

yet — 
Alas ! that change how fain would I forget ! 
That shrinking back, like one that had mis- 
took ! 
That weary, wandering, disavowing look ! lo 

'Twas all another, feature, look, and frame. 
And still, methought, I knew, it was the same ! 

FRIEND 

This riddling tale, to what does it belong ? 

Is't history ? vision ? or an idle song ? 

Or rather say at once, within what space 15 

Of time this wild disastrous change took place ? 

AUTHOR 

Call it a moments work (and such it seems) 
This tale's a fragment from the life of dreams ; 
But say, that years matur'd the silent strife. 
And 'tis a record from the dream of life. "^^ 



288 Select potm& of Colmnge 

LOVE'S APPARITION AND EVANISH- 

MENT 

AN ALLEGORIC ROMANCE 
1833-1834 

Like a lone Arab, old and blind, 

Some caravan had left behind, 

Who sits beside a ruin'd well. 

Where the shy sand-asps bask and swell ; 
And now he hangs his aged head aslant, 5 

And listens for a human sound — in vain ! 
And now the aid, which Heaven alone can 

grant. 
Upturns his eyeless face from Heaven to 

gain ; — 
Even thus, in vacant mood, one sultry hour, 
Resting my eye upon a drooping plant, 10 

With brow low-bent, within my garden-bower, 
I sate upon the couch of camomile ; 
And — whether 'twas a transient sleep, per- 
chance. 
Flitted across the idle brain, the while 
I watch'd the sickly calm with aimless scope, 15 
In my own heart ; or that, indeed a trance, 
Turn'd my eye inward — thee, O genial Hope, 
Love's elder sister ! thee did I behold, 
Drest as a bridesmaid, but all pale and cold. 
With roseless cheek, all pale and cold and dim, 20 



Cpitaplft 289 

Lie lifeless at my feet ! 
And then came Love, a sylph in bridal trim, 

And stood beside my seat ; 
She bent, and kiss'd her sister's lips, 

As she was wont to do ; — 25 

Alas ! 'twas but a chilling breath 
Woke just enough of life in death 

To make Hope die anew. 

l'envoy 

In vain we supplicate the Powers above 5 
There is no resurrection for the Love 30 

That, nursed in tenderest care, yet fades away 
In the chill'd heart by gradual self-decay. 

EPITAPH 

1833-1834 
Stop, Christian passer-by ! — Stop, child of 

God, 
And read with gentle breast. Beneath this sod 
A poet lies, or that which once seem'd he. — 
O, lift one thought in prayer for S. T. C. ; 
That he who many a year with toil of breath 5 
Found death in life, may here find life in death ! 
Mercy for praise — to be forgiven for fame 
He ask'd, and hoped, through Christ 

Do thou the same ! 

9M November 1833. 



CHRONOLOGICAL 

1772. Born at Ottery St, Mary, Oct. zi. 

1782. Admitted to Christ's Hospital. 

1 79 1. Enters Cambridge University. 

1793. Enlists in the Light Dragoons. 

1 794. Returns to Cambridge ; meets Southey at Oxford ; 

Pantisocracy hatched ; leaves Cambridge and goes 
to London. 

1795. Goes to Bristol ; marries Miss Fricker, and settles at 

Clevedon. 

1796. First volume of poems ; The Watchman. 

1 797. Removes to Nether Stow^ey ; first meeting with Words- 

worth 5 the Lyrical Ballads begun. 

1798. Lyrical Ballads published} visits Germany with the 

Wordsworths. 

1799. Returns to England ; Morning Post and JVallenstein. 
l8®o. Removes to Greta Hall, Keswick. 

1 801. Broken health ; the '* Kendal Black Drop." 

1 802. Dejection and family discord. 

1803. Visits Scotland with the Wordsworths. 

1804. Sails for Malta ; made secretary to Sir Alexander Ball. 

1805. Visits SicUy and Rome. 

1806-10. At Coleorton with Wordsworth 5 lectures on the 
poets at the Royal Institution, London j at Gras- 
mere ; projects The Friend. 

1811-12. In London ; lectures on Shakespeare and Milton. 

1 81 3— 16. Remorse at Drury Lane ; lectures at Bristol ; goes to 
Calne ; settles at Highgate with the Gillmans j 
publishes Christabel. 

18 1 7. Biographia Liter aria and Sibylline Leaves. 

18 1 8-19. Lectures in London. 

1 8 20-24. Hackwork. 

1825. Aids to Reflection ; Pension. 

1826—34. Last years at Highgate : Visits the Rhine with Words- 
worth ; John Sterling his pupil ; Emerson visits him j 
Died July 25. 



NOTES 

1772-1786 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge was born at the Vicarage of 
Ottery Gc. Mary, in Devonsiiire, October 21, 1772. His father, 
Rev. John Coleridge, was vicar of the parish. Chaplain and Mas- 
ter of the Free Grammar School founded by Henry VIH and 
known as King's School. John Coleridge was twice married, 
having three daughters by the first marriage, nine sons, of whom 
Samuel was the youngest, and one daughter by the second. His 
second wife was a practical, thrifty, home-loving woman, with am- 
bitions for her many sons ; these qualities were in striking contrast 
to those of the Vicar who as the poet said : "In learning, good- 
heartedness, absentness of mind, and excessive ignorance of the 
world, was a perfect Parson Adams." He is still remembered at 
the old school as one of its most distinguished teachers. 

A glimpse into the heart of this remarkable family is given by 
the poet in his letters to Thomas Poole and his poems. He tells 
us that being the baby in the group he was petted by his father and 
brother George, and worshipped by his mother ; and because of 
his precocity he was the admiration of the old women j as a result 
he was disliked by the other children and became petulant, vain and 
moody. He lived quite apart from his mates, in a world of his 
own creation, for he was a prodigy from his earliest days, and 
illustrated his father's teaching, — that " the sublime is born with 
man and cannot be taught ; a soaring mind will wear no shackles." 
He fed upon romance in story and song, reading from the age of 
three — when he entered school — everything which ministered to 
his sense of the marvellous. His only play was in acting such 
scenes as he had found in legends and myths. He says, " I had 
none of a child's habits. I never thought as a child, never had 
the language of a child." Thus early he became a " footless bird 
of Paradise." Prof. Shairp asks, " Is it fanciful to imagine that 



292 ^Ott& 

there was something in that character which accords well with the 
soft, mild and the dreamy loveliness that rests on the blue coombes 
and sea-coves of South Devon ? ' ' 

How the quiet old town of Ottery with its wealth of historic 
associations Roman, British and Norman, its noble church, its 
natural beauty — rivers, woods and hills — impressed him at this 
early age will be seen in his first poetical work. 

The first great experience of Coleridge's life was that by which 
he became a liveried school boy mid cloisters dim, in the heart of a 
great city. He had not reached his tenth birthday when his father 
died. The family was obliged to leave the vicarage 5 as the elder 
brother George was about to enter Oxford an old pupil of the Vicar's 
obtained a presentation for Samuel at the Charity School, Christ's 
Hospital, London. Thus rudely awakened from his idyllic dream- 
world he entered the great school in July 1782, ' too soon trans- 
planted ere his soul had fixed its first domestic loves.' The school 
there contained about seven hundred boys, nearly one-third being 
sons of clergymen. Like so many of England's educational insti- 
tutions this school was once a Franciscan monastery. It was con- 
verted into a charity by the orphan King Edward VL Naturally 
enough many of the ascetic customs remained as part of the order 
of the school. The boys wore the monkish long coats buttoned to 
the throat and belted, yellow silk stockings, low shoes, white 
stock, and the head bare. The diet was spare, and the discipline 
vigorous. The noble buildings, quaint customs, stately halls hung 
with historic portraits and armorial bearings, ample courts for play, 
gave the place an air of dignity and grandeur which must have 
impressed the shy Devonshire lad. That he was homesick is to be 
taken for granted, but that he soon adjusted himself to the new life 
is evident. As the boys were privileged to free entry to the Tower, 
the Abbey and St. Paul's, so they were the chief attendants upon 
the Lord Mayor in his civic procession at Easter when he enter- 
tained them at tea. The blue-coat boys were treated with special 
respect by the citizens who thronged the halls of the school on St. 
Matthew's Day when declamations were given in the classics and 
prizes distributed, and who attended the public supper at Lent to 
hear the boys sing the anthems. One of the most striking cere- 
monies of the school was that which occurred on the death of one 
of the boys. All gathered by night in the court of the hospital 



iliotesf 293 

quarter, bearing torches and singing psalms, and solemnly moved 
through the echoing cloisters behind the coffin. 

The teaching was thorough even to severity, and woe to the lad 
who fell behind in any of his work. Boyer the master has received 
distinctive and enviable recognition at the hands of his most famous 
pupils Coleridge in Biographia Literaria and Lamb in his inimitable 
Essays on Christ Hospital. No shirking, no pretence, ever escaped 
his notice. He was a terrible realist and hated affectation and false- 
brilliancy. When Coleridge began his experiences of poetry and 
love at the school they naturally colored his language and con- 
duct, and Boyer quickly detected the causes, and would exclaim, 
** Myse, boys ! Muse ! Your Nurse's daughter, you mean ! 
Pierian fountain ! Yes — the pump in the courtyard ! ' ' Cole- 
ridge had no difficulty in maintaining himself with distinction and 
became one of the select few known as Grecians, who read the 
most difficult Latin, Greek and Hebrew classics, in training for 
University scholarships. Alluding to the marvellous power which 
Coleridge exercised at that early age. Lamb, a quarter of a century 
later, writes : *' Come back into memory, like as thou wert in the 
dayspring of thy fancies, with hope like a fiery column before thee 
— the dark pillar not yet turned — Samuel Taylor Coleridge — 
Logician, Metaphysician, Bard ! — How have I seen the casual 
passer through the cloisters stand still, entranced with admiration, 
to hear thee in thy deep and sweet intonations recite Homer in his 
Greek, or Pindar, while the walls of the old Grey Friars re-echoed 
to the accents of the inspired Charity boy ! ' ' 

It is just three hundred and fifty years ago that the boy King 
Edward VI, having been moved by a sermon of Bishop Ridley's 
which exhorted the rich to be mindful of the poor, began the 
movement which resulted in the founding of Christ's Hospital, in 
the heart of London, and in this year, 1902, in the reign of 
Edward Vllth, the great city ceases to be the home of the old 
school. For a long time the Commissioners of Charity have been 
moving to take the school into the country, as by the sale of the 
valuable city property more healthful and spacious quarters could be 
provided there. The Governors, however, hesitated until at last 
they were forced to take the step, and in 1887 secured 1200 
acres near Horsham Sussex. Here new buildings have been 
erected to accommodate one thousand pupils. On Sunday, March 



294 jliOte0 [1786 

16, a farewell service was held in the venerable Christ*s Church 
adjoining the Hospital in Newgate Street at which the new Bishop 
of London preached the sermon. On Easter Tuesday, April I, 
over five hundred blue coat boys trooped through Cheapside to pay 
their annual visit to the Lord Mayor at the Mansion House. After 
an address by the Lord Mayor, each Grecian (fourteen) was pre- 
sented with a guinea, each deputy Grecian (ten) with a half guinea, 
each monitor (thirty-four) with a half crown, and every other boy 
with a shilling, the coins being fresh from the mint. Then after 
two buns and a glass of lemonade or claret had been given to each 
lad they marched to Christ's Church followed by the Lord Mayor 
and the city officials, where the Bishop of St. Albans preached the 
'Spital sermon. On Wednesday, April 16, at eventide the boys 
assembled in St. Paul's Cathedral, where they were addressed by the 
Archbishop of Canterbury, and Choral service was sung by the 
Hospital Choir of sixty voices. After the Easter holidays, which 
began the 1 9th of April, the school assembled in its new house at 
Horsham, and one of London's historic and picturesque attractions 
became extinct. No more will the passer-by linger at the palings 
to watch the eager throng of blue coat boys as (with the tails of 
their coats tucked tightly into their belts) they pass to their daily 
practice of football ; no more will their historic festivals at Guild 
Hall, Mansion House and Christ's Church attract the citizen or 
the chance visitor, for they are now a part of history or a treasure 
in the memories of those who have been fortunate enough to wit- 
ness them. 

I 786-1 794. 

GENEVIEVE. 
First printed in the Cambridge Intelligencey Nov. i , 1 794. 

Aside from his studies Coleridge's life was not without variety 
of incident. He rapidly made friends with kindred spirits, like 
Thomas Middleton, the Le Grice brothers, and Charles Lamb. 
There is little evidence that he took any prominent part in the sports 
of the school, although on holidays he joined his mates in swimming 
parties. On one occasion he swam New River with his clothes on 
and dried them on his back, with the result that he was obliged to 
spend much of the next year in the sick ward on account of rheu- 
matism. Tradition ascribes this poem to this particular year and 



1788] jl^otes; 295 

its subject the daughter of the nurse who attended him. While 
with Coleridge, as with Burns, poetry and love began early, poetry 
seems to have gained the start as Boyer, unlike most masters of the 
English schools of the time, made much of the English poets and 
taught that the simplicity of Shakespeare was far above the rhetoric 
of Virgil. An interesting copy book in which Coleridge wrote his 
school exercises in verse is still in the possession of Boyer's grand- 
son. It is valuable as showing what obstacles he had to overcome 
before he revealed that he was a poet ; he says of these attempts, 
"they are only such thoughts as any clever lad might put into 
verse. ' ' 

This poem is the earliest composition of his which has been pre- 
served. In the first edition of his poems is the following : " This 
little poem was written when the author was a boy, age fourteen." 
It is an interesting fact that Wordsworth's earliest poem was written 
at the same age when he was at the Hawkshead school. 

Coleridge was living in an age of literary transition. Gray, 
Collins and Goldsmith had struck new notes and the world was 
wondering ; Cowper and Burns were just publishing their first work 
which was to set the critics teeth on edge. The old was dead, the 
new being born, and the contrast between them is revealed in the 
work of Coleridge. 

1788-1796. 

SONNET TO THE AUTUMNAL MOON. 

First Printed in Poems^ 1796- 

That Coleridge had other interests besides those of poetry may 
be seen from the fact that at one time he seriously contemplated 
apprenticing himself to a London shoemaker, and was saved only 
by the vigorous action of Boyer who broke up the arrangement by 
driving the son of Crispin from the school premises. Again when 
his brother Luke came up to work in the London Hospital he 
began to read the works on surgery and medicine, accompanied 
his brother on his rounds, and was delighted to hold the plaster. 
He then read metaphysics and Voltaire and sported infidel, but 
Boyer was again equal to the emergency and flogged it out of him. 
Coleridge said this was the only just flogging he ever received at 
the school. At times too he became homesick and then he lost 
himself in the remembrance of his rural home in Devon. He 



296 jliotesf [1789 

would climb to the leaden roof of Christ's Hospital and gaze upon 
the sky and stars. Wordsworth says of these experiences : 

* * Of rivers, fields 
And groves I speak to thee, my Friend ! to thee 
Who yet a liveried school boy, in the depths 
Of a huge city, on the leaded roof 
Of that wide edifice, thy school and home, 
Wert used to lie and gaze upon the clouds 
Moving in heaven ; or, of that pleasure tired, 
To shut thine eyes, and by internal light, 
See trees, and meadows, and thy native stream, 
Far distant," Prelude VI. 

Out of some such experience as this we may be sure the poem 
was written. It is much afi:er the manner of Milton's // Penseroso 
in its pensive quality and landscape effects. The shaping spirit of 
imagination is distinctly felt ; in freshness and spontaneity it reveals 
the new life with nature, 

1 789-1834. 
TO THE MUSE. 
First printed in Poetical Works ^ 1834, 

About this time important influences were coming into the life 
of Coleridge. The first was his friendship with the Evans family, 
A son of this family was in a lower form in the school and Cole- 
ridge had protected him. Coleridge says, '* Therefore he looked 
up to me and taught me what it was to have a mother. I loved 
her much. She had three daughters, and of course I fell in love 
with the eldest. And oh ! from sixteen to nineteen what hours 
of paradise had Allen and I in escorting the Evanses home on a 
Saturday who were then at a milliners . . . and we used to carry 
thither of a summer evening, the pillage of the flower gardens 
within six miles of town, with sonnets or love rhymes wrapped 
round the nose gay. To be feminine, kind, and genteelly (what I 
should now call neatly) dressed, these were the only things to 
which my head, heart, or imagination had any polarity." He 
became a son and brother in the family, but for Mary there was 
more than family feeling. His brother George was now Master in 



1789] il^otes; 297 

the school at Hackney and Coleridge wrote him as follows : « You 
will excuse me for reminding you that, as our holidays commence 
next week, and I shall go out a good deal, a good pair of breeches 
wiU be no inconsiderable accession to my appearance, as^ my pre- 
sent ones are not altogether well adapted for a female eye. 

The second great influence was that of Bowles sonnets which 
were sent to him by his friend Middleton who had entered Cam- 
bridge. In this slight volume of twenty sonnets, he met nature, as 
he had not before in poetry, and was captivated by their freshness, 
originality, and simplicity. He copied them again and again in 
order that his friends might enjoy them with him. In writing ot 
these to one of his friends he says, '* They have done my heart 
more good than all the other books I ever read excepting the 
Bible " It is difficult for us in these days to conceive of a time 
when such influences could be produced by a Uttle quarto. But 
Coleridge was not the only one over whom it cast its spell, tor 
Wordsworth was not long after captivated by it. He first met the 
volume as he was starting for a walk, and kept his brother waiting 
on Westminster Bridge until he read the twenty sonnets. 

<« As the English romantic poets went forth to combat the classic 
school with its super-sense and pride of strict rules, and to endow 
the poetry of the fairy tale with new life, their first halt was under 
the shadow of Bowles." —Alois Brandl. 

"The first breath of Nature unsophisticated by classical tra- 
dition "came to Coleridge from Bowles's sonnets ; and he recognized 
it at once." —J. D. Campbell, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, p. 17. 

The reflective morality is somewhat prominent in the concluding 
verses which remind one of the Gray's Elegy. In spite its eigh- 
teenth century elegance the poem is evidence that even now Cole- 
ridge was getting pleasure in his work. It is at least a '_< bud of 
hope and a promise of better works to come." Cf. Biographia 
Literaria, Chapter I. , c t- n i -^ 

There is a manuscript copy of this poem signed S. i . Coleridge. 

i789?-i834. 
DESTRUCTION OF THE BASTILE. 
First printed in Poetical Works, 1834. 

Two great influences in the life of Coleridge during these early 
days have been alluded to j the third and the greatest of all 13 



298 il^otesf [1789 

that which appears in this poem. How the early impulse of the 
French Revolution touched the younger minds in England should 
be read in Prof. Dowden's splendid work " The French Revolu- 
tion and English Literature," which is an expansion of Chapter I 
in his earlier work " Studies in English Literature," Wordsworth's 
Prelude, and " The Youth of Wordsworth " by E. Legouis. What 
we are interested in here is that phase of it by which Coleridge was 
moved into that larger world of life and action in which he was 
destined by Providence to join forces with William Wordsworth, that 
other child of the Muses who was at this time at Cambridge and was 
being stirred by the same great awakening to the scenes of " Revo- 
lutionary power tossed like a ship at anchor, rocked by storms." 

Wordsworth was born and educated in. the north country of 
Cumberland and Westmoreland. Having been nourished by ' ' Pre- 
sences of Nature in the sky and in the earth," and having com- 
muned with those " Visions of the hills and souls of lonely places " 
until his mind became peopled with forms sublime and fair, he 
entered Granta's Cloisters, there to be an inmate of a world within 
a world. He roamed 

" Delighted through the motley spectacle : 

Gowns, grave or gaudy, doctors, students, streets, 
Courts, cloisters, flocks of churches, gateways, towers ; 
Migration strange for a stripling of the hills, 
A northern villager." 

From here his vacation visits to France brought him to feel some- 
thing of the storm and stress, the tumult and passion of the Revo- 
lution. 

His earliest poetry, which was being written the same year as 
this poem of Coleridge's, is an expression of his sympathy with the 
cause of humanity, and Descripti've Sketches (afterwards incorpo- 
rated into the Prelude) reveal the first tidal impulse, moving him 
from the harbor life he had been living, out upon the turbulent sea 
of political and social controversy. How all this came about should 
be read in the Prelude. 

The Revolution was not confined to the sphere of politics : that 
was only one feature of the great movement toward the goal of 
equal rights to which the nations were tending. It was a return 
to Nature in all the departments of life. This enthusiasm for 
Nature took form in France under Rousseau's extravagant and 



1789] il^otefif 299 

diseased sensibility. In Germany the same feeling was manifested 
by Goethe, who combined the poetic with the scientific aspect of 
Nature, and swelled the great wave of feeling which was gathering 
force as it advanced. In England it had been growing into form 
for half a century. The heralds of the day arose from quarters 
and under circumstances quite unexpected, — from the sorrow and 
disappointment of Cowper and the untaught melodies of a plow-boy 
of Ayrshire, — the one in his invalid nightcap, the other in his 
blue bonnet and homespun. But the leaders in this ' Liberation 
War of Humanity ' were to be Wordsworth and Coleridge. 

What Prof. Dowden says of this early influence is evident in such 
a poem as this. ** In this passion there was, no doubt, something 
immature, something hectic, something turbid, much unwise heat, 
not a little illusion. In its vivid and immediate influence the genius 
of the Revolution did an injury to art ; it tended to convert the 
poet into a declairaer, a preacher, the missionary of an ill-considered 
evangel. In its remoter effects the gain was real and great." 

There is some doubt as to the exact date at which the poem was 
written, but Mr. J. Dykes Campbell gives it as possibly 1789. It 
could not have been earlier than this nor later than 1792, as will 
be seen from notes to To a Young Lady^ p. 305. Mr. Camp- 
bell's note is as follows : "First printed in Poetical Works, 1834. 
The text differs slightly from an early MS. copy with the head- 
ing : — * An Ode to the Destruction of the Bastile,' and signed 
S. T. C. In place of the asterisk is this note : (Stanza second 
and third are lost. We may gather from the context that they 
alluded to the Bastile and its inhabitants)." Mr. Alois Brandl 
suggests that this poem be compared with Gray's Progress of Poesy 
for diction and verse. There is surely more agitation here than 
healthy animation. Here is the first effect of the Revolution, 
emotional 5 the second, intellectual, will be seen in the Ode to 
France. The first is seen in Wordsworth's Prelude 5 the second 
in his political sonnets, where storm and stress pass into dignity, sim- 
plicity and repose of the highest art. 

1789-1834. 
LIFE. 
First printed in Poetical Works^ 1834. 

This poem was written after a visit to his old home at Ottery 
where his sister Ann was in ill health. Mr. Campbell thinks 



300 j]iote0 [1790 

it was his first visit home since he went to Christ's Hospital. 
There are two early manuscripts copied of the poem and the text 
here differs slightly from each of these. The first two stanzas 
reveal how easily and naturally Coleridge could compose in verse 
descriptive, while the last two are weighted with his peculiarly 
mature though tfulness. There is little discipline yet in thinking 
and little restraint in expression, but the subtle souled psychologist 
is here. 

1 790-1 794. 

MONODY ON THE DEATH OF CHATTERTON. 

( In Christ's Hospital Book. ) 

First printed in Launcelot Sharpe's edition of Chatterton's Poems, 

1794- 

When we consider the '* marvellous boys " of our English litera- 
ture, we have no hesitation in pronouncing Chatterton the most 
marvellous ; even Burns and Blake, Coleridge and Keats, seem 
ordinary in comparison to him. Although not learning to read 
until he was six and dying. before he was eighteen, he produced a 
body of poetry much of which, for romantic spirit, imaginative 
splendor, and captivating melody, stiU remains unsurpassed. The 
story of his life is the most pathetic in a literary history where 
pathos is by no means uncommon. In twelve years from 1767— 
1770 he did all his work, the larger part of which was a mass of 
pseudo-antique poetry, drama, lyrics and epic fragments which he 
attributed to an old monk Rowley of the fifteenth century. These, 
now known as the Rowley Poems, gave rise to as much heated 
controversy as the Ossianic poetry of McPherson. Because of this 
hoax he left Bristol, his native place, in 1770 and went up to Lon- 
don as a literary adventurer : there starvation brought on madness 
and he took his life in August of the same year, after writing poems, 
essays and stories for no less than six magazines. 

Only three years before Coleridge wrote this poem Chatterton's 
works had been published and we may conjecture that they were 
among those read by Coleridge in that library, access to which tra- 
dition says was due to the fact that he was accosted in the street as 
a thief because while in imagination he was swimming the Helles- 
pont with Leander his hand touched a gentleman's pocket, and on 



,79o] jl^otesi 301 

hearing his defence the inquisitor subscribed for his admission to a 
drculafing library. Others of the poetic Guild besides Coleridge have 
been glad to pay Chatterton honor. 

" The marvellous boy, 
The sleepless soul that perished in his pride." 

Wordsworth. 

Keats dedicated Endymion to his memory, and writing to 
Mathew he asks him to help him to find a place 

<< Where we may soft humanity put on. 

And sit and rhyme, and think of Chatterton. ' 

Rossetti in writing sonnets on each of the " Five English Poets," 
gives the following — 

«' Thy nested home-loves, noble Chatterton ; 

The angel trodden stair thy soul could trace 
Up Redcliffe's spire 5 and in the world's armed space 
Thy gallant sword play : these to many an one 
Are sweet forever ; as thy grave unknown ^^ 
And love dream of thine unrecorded face. 
Shelley's tribute to him in Adonais where he presents him as 
welcoming Keats in the realms of death is one of the most beauti- 
ful of the tributes of his successes in the field of romance : — 

*< The inheritors of unfulfilled renown 

Rose from their thrones, built beyond mortal thought, 
Far in the Unapparent, Chatterton 
Rose pale, his solemn agony had not 
Yet faded from him." 
The Rowleian accent is to be found frequently in the poetry 
after Chalterton's time. 

In the Biographia Literaria Chapter I, Coleridge risu honesto 
exposes his eadyUts in three sonnets : " The first had for its 
obLt to excite a good-natured laugh at the spirit of doleful egotism 
and the recurrence of favorite phrases. The second on low, creep- 
ing language and thoughts, under the pretence of simplicity. 1 he 



302 j^otesf [1790-91 

third on the indiscriminate use of elaborate and swelling language and 
imagery. ' ' 

In its cumbrous splendor this poem reveals how completely Cole- 
ridge was in the literary atmosphere of the eighteenth century. Mr, 
Alois Brandl finds in it an evidence that Coleridge was breaking with 
traditional views of religion. He says " The moral of the Ode is 
Platonic rather than Christian." This poem has an interesting 
history of alterations and changes until 1 794, and the student is 
referred to J. Dykes Campbell's edition 1893 for the facts. Cf. 
Lamb's Letters 1 796-1 797, edited by Canon Ainger for com- 
ments on the poem. 

1 790-1 834. 
ON RECEIVING AN ACCOUNT THAT HIS ONLY SISTER* S 

DEATH WAS INEVITABLE. 
First printed in Poetical Works, 1834. 

The years 1 790-1 were saddened by the loss of his brother 
Luke who had been so much to him while they were together in 
London, and his sister Ann; This poem was written in the inter- 
val between these bereavements. It is a sincere revelation of his 
love, but too full of the morbid emotion of Bowles. 

1 79 1 ?-i798. 

THE RAVEN. 
First printed in the Morning Post, March 10, 1798. 

The greatest of the poems of his school life is T/ie Ra-ven. It con- 
tains clear prophecy of TAe Ancient Mariner in quality of imagina- 
tion, exquisite music and central conception. It is one of the most 
fascinating child poems in the language, " The metrical movement," 
says Mr. Stopford Brooke, *' is like a dance of the elemental beings 
of Nature, now as of Satyr's wild voiced Pan ; now as of Nymphs, 
graceful, gay and light as summer leaves in wind ; now as of em- 
bodied rivers and brooks in full and rushing joy ; and now as of 
Ariel and his spirits footing it featly to and fro on the primitive 
sands." 

The original title was Dream. The two closing lines were 
added for copy of 1817 Sibylline Lea-ves. Mr. Campbell says that 



«79i] jl^ote0 303 

in the margin of a copy of this edition now in possession of Mr. 
Stewart M. Samuel there is the following note in Coleridge's 
handwriting : 

'* Added through cowardly fear of the Goody ! What a Hollow, 
where the Heart of Faith ought to be, does it not betray — this 
alarm concerning Christian morality, — that it will not permit even 
a Raven to be a Raven, nor a Fox to be a Fox, but demands con- 
venticular justice to be inflicted on their unchristian conduct, or at 
least an antidote to be annexed. ' ' 

Mr. Alois Brandl says : ' ' This first poetic work by Coleridge 
has already a republican aim and a popular tone." 

1791-1834. 

SONNET ON QUITTING SCHOOL FOR COLLEGE. 

First printed in Poetical Works, 1 8 34. 

Notwithstanding his bereavements Coleridge must have looked 
forward to his early entrance into other scenes of more freedom and 
responsibility 5 and yet when the time arrived he naturally felt sad 
at leaving associations which had been so much to him, especially 
his friends Lamb, Robert Allen, and others. And he voices these 
feelings in this and th,e two following poems. 

1 791-1794. 



First printed in Cambridge Intelligencer , Oct. 1 1 , 1 794. 

Cf. Wordsworth's poem on Anticipation of Leaving School, writ- 
ten at the same age. 

1791-1834. 
HAPPINESS. 
First printed in Poetical Works, 1834. 

Probably written at Ottery during the interim between leaving 
Christ's Hospital and entering Cambridge. 

Mr. Campbell tells us that he has seen an early, perhaps an 
earlier, manuscript copy of this poem and that although the text 



304 ^om [179* 

differs but little there is one interesting variant. The printed lines 
91 and 92 are not in the manuscript where instead the passage 
gives : — 

" Ah ! doubly blest, if love supply 

Lustre to this now heavy eye, 
And with unwonted spirit grace 

That fat vacuity of face, 
Or if e'en Love, the mighty Love 

Shall find this change his powers above ; 
Some lovely maid perchance that'll find 

To read thy visage in thy mind." 

* The author was at this time aet. 17 (read 19, ed. ) remarkable 
for a plump face.' (Transcriber's foot-note.) 

1792-1893. 

A WISH WRITTEN IN JESUS WOOD FEB. I O, 1 792. 

First printed in J. Dykes Campbell's edition, 1893. 

Coleridge left: school in September, 179 1, and after a visit to his 
old home at Ottery he entered Jesus College, Cambridge in October 
of the same year. Life in the University at that time while, so 
different from that of the school, was not calculated to inspire such 
a youth as Coleridge. Wordsworth had just left Cambridge and 
was on his way to Paris, — 

" An idler, well content 
To have a house (what matter for a home .?) 
That owned him ; living cheerfiilly abroad, 
With unchecked fancy ever on the stir, 
And all my young affections out of doors." 

Landing at Paris on that great federal day he writes : — 

*' Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive 
But to be young was very heaven. ' ' 

Coleridge seems to have made friends rapidly, through the intro- 
ductions by his schoolmates Middleton and the Le Grice brothers 



179*] j!iote0 305 

his rooms became a centre of interest and influence. Here high 
discourse flourished and the young Freshman held his audience with 
the fascination and mystery of him who was "the first to burst 
into that silent sea ' ' whence would come the story of the Mariner y 
Kubla Khan and Christabel. Tradition says that when he was 
soaring on the wings of dazzling rhetoric the impressionable youth 
listening would cut off bits of his gown as souvenirs ; and that on 
one occasion he was reprimanded by Dr. Pierce fo> wearing so 
shameful a garb. '* Mr. Coleridge ! Mr. Coleridge ! when will 
you get rid of that shameful gown ? " He replied : *' Why, Sir, 
I think I've got rid of the greater part of it already." He cap- 
tured some prizes for poetry, read the philosophers, and brooded 
over the outburst of revolutionary spirit in France. He still kept 
up his friendship for the Evans family and continued in his devo- 
tion to Mary, — as is seen from the history of this poem given as 
follows by Mr. Campbell in his edition of Coleridge's poems 
1893: — 

"Here printed from a letter written by Coleridge from Cam- 
bridge to Mary Evans. This letter, with several others to Mrs. 
Evans, and to her daughters Mary and Anne are now in the great 
collection of Mr. Alfred Morrison of Fonthill." He here speaks 
as a landscape elegist, and the feeling "sicklied o'er with the pale 
cast of thought. ' ' 

Gray in his Eton Ode has this overwrought pensiveness j when, 
seeing the boys at play he is somewhat sadly reminded : 

" How all around them wait 
The ministers of human fate 
And black Misfortune's baleful train !" 

1 792-1 796. 
TO A YOUNG LADY WITH A POEM ON THE FRENCH 
REVOLUTION. 
First printed in the Watchman ^ 1796. 

The date of this is given by Coleridge as 1792 and is addressed 
with others to Miss F. Nesbitt, at Plymouth, whither the author 
had repaired accompanied by his brother George to whom he was 
paying a visit. George was at this time Master of the Old School 
at Ottery. 



3o6 JliOCe0 [1793 

I've not been able to find an allusion to this visit in any of the 
works of Coleridge, but as he was not very careful of his dates, and 
little is known of his Cambridge career, there may be an error here. 
At any rate we may feel sure that the poem on the French 
Revolution was that on the Destruction of the Bastile, 

1. 9. Lee Boo, Prince of the Pelew Islands came to England 
where he died and was buried in Greenwich Churchyard, 

1. 41 — Sara. This must have been added later as at the time 
of writing the poem he had not met Sara Fricker. 

1793-1796. 
SONGS OF THE PIXIES. 
First printed in Poems, 1796. 

In the long vacation of 1793 Coleridge visited his family at 
Ottery and during this visit he wrote this poem and the two which 
follow. 

At the scene of this poem there is what is known as the Parlour 
of the Pixies and upon a rock in it the initials of Coleridge cut by 
his own hand are still legible. 

In this graceful little poem Coleridge is on the firm ground of 
creative work and is simple, sensuous, impassioned. It strikes the 
lyrical note of Milton in U Allegro and the songs of Comus, while 
the lines 92—100 distinctly reveal the lofty conception of virtue of 
the Comus. His ardour is not deep but his perception is fine, and 
his execution, though still imperfect, is wondrously beautiful in 
delicate fancy painting. 

1793 ?-i 797. 

SONNET TO THE RIVER OTTER. 

First Printed as a separate poem in Poems, 1 797, parts having 
appeared with another poem in the Watchman, No, V, April 

2, 1796. 

This should be compared with Bowles's Sonnet To the River 
Itchin. 

" Itchin, when I behold thy banks again, 
Thy crumbling margin, and thy silver breast, 
On which the self-same tints still seem to rest, 
Why feels my heart the shiv'ring sense of pain ? 



1793] 0Ott& 307 

Is it that many a summer's day is past 
Since, in life's morn, I carol' d on thy side ? 
Is it that oft, since then, my heart has sigh'd. 

As Youth and Hope's delusive gleams flew fast ? 
Is it that those who circled on thy shore, 
Companions of my youth, now meet no more ? 

Whate'er the cause, upon thy banks I bend, 
Sorrowing, yet feel such solace at my heart. 

As at the meeting of some long-lost friend. 
From whom, in happier hours, we wept to part." 

1793-?- 
LINES TO A BEAUTIFUL SPRING IN A VILLAGE. 

This evidently belongs to the same period as the preceding. It 
has an abundance of double epithets and turgid rhetoric, but only a 
little passion for nature. 

Speaking of these early poems which so many critics condemn 
Mr. Richard Garnett says : " We see in them how men of true 
genius would have written if the great awakenings of the Romantic 
school and the French Revolution had never taken place, and are 
able to gauge in some degree an intellectual indebtedness to these 
mighty mutations. The contrast is the more instructive, as these 
early poems are by no means unpoetical. There is scarcely one 
which does not give evidence of having proceeded from a true 
poet," 

1793 ?-l 796. 

LINES ON AN AUTUMNAL EVENING. 

First printed in 1796. Title written in early youth ; the time an 

autumnal evening. 

In October, 1793, Christopher Wordsworth entered Trinity Col- 
lege and at once became acquainted with Coleridge. They soon 
joined with others in forming a Literary Society. They discussed 
a review in the Current Monthly of the Descriptive Sketches, verse 
by Christopher's brother William. At one of the meetings Cole- 
ridge recited this poem, which was evidently written during his 
vacation at Ottery. 



3o8 0Ott& [1794 

Here we have distinctive notes of the new feeling toward man 
and nature, which was awakened in the delightful scenery of his 
home. Mr. Stopford Brooke says : " This poem and The ^olian 
Harp are the first examples of the short meditative pieces in which 
Nature and the human affections are gently wrought together — a 
special kind of poetry Coleridge may be said to have invented and 
which no one has done so well. ' ' 

11. 17-20. Mr. Campbell says : ** These lines may have been 
inspired by felicitations received from Mary Evans on the winning 
of the Browne gold medal in 1792." 

1 794-1 798. 

LEWTI, OR THE CIRCASSIAN LOVE-CHAUNT. 

First printed in the Morning Post, April 13, 1798. 

The years 1793-4 were eventful ones in the life of Coleridge. 
In December 1793 a crisis was reached — was it the. failure of 
Mary Evans to respond to his love, or his inability to meet his col- 
lege dues ? At any rate he left the college without giving warning 
to any one and went to London. Having spent the first night in 
the street hungry and wretched he spied a government poster call- 
ing for volunteers for the light dragoons : he went to the recruiting 
office where after enlisting he got his breakfast and bounty money 
and was sent to the Government Mews at Reading. He enrolled 
under the name Silas Tomkyn Comberbach. He made a sorry 
picture when riding and grooming his horse, neither of which exer- 
cise he had ever taken in his life. He never rose above the awk- 
ward squad. The sergeant would warn the others when Coleridge 
was at drill, ' ' Take care of that Cumberbatch — for he will ride 
over you ! " Mr. Peter Bayne asks : " Was there ever since the 
days of the great hunter, such a private soldier ? . . . Talk of 
Kilmenie among the rustics after her sojourn by the celestial streams : 
talk of Apollo amid the gaping herdsmen of Admetus : this of 
Coleridge among the dragoons beats them all." His identity was 
partially revealed when he wrote a Latin inscription on the stable 
wall, — " Eheu ! quam infortunii miserrimum est fuisse felicem " ; 
and the Captain became interested in him and pitying him in his 
plight made arrangements with his brother James, who was an 



1794] jl^otesf 309 

officer in the army, by which he might be released. He returned 
to Cambridge in April, 1794, where the only punishment he 
received was a censure by the Master in the presence of the Fel- 
lows. At Oxford he soon met Southey who was an ardent revolu- 
tionist, and they planned a new communal life in America. He 
spent his vacation travelling in Wales, visited Southey at Bristol 
where he met and became engaged to Sara Fricker, sister of the 
girl to whom Southey was engaged. Pantisocracy was expanded 
and Coleridge was to procure part of the funds by publishing some 
poems. 

It is evident that this poem was written shortly before the visit 
to Wales, and that it reveals his sadness at the treatment he had 
received from Mary Evans, for the original draft of this poem, 
1. 4, had Mary, where now Lewti stands. Mr. Campbell tells us 
that in another early manuscript the name Sara appears. This 
change was made of course after his meeting Miss Fricker. 

1 794-1 8 3 6. 
THE FADED FLOWER. 

First printed in New Monthly Magazine, August, 1836, 

Coleridge now planned another poem in order to increase the 
funds at the disposal of the Pantisocrats — a Tragedy on the Fall of 
Robespierre. The Faded Flower was printed in the New Monthly 
Magazine in 1836 with a letter to Rev. Mr. Martin (to whom 
Robespierre was dedicated). This letter which was written in 
July 1794, alluded to the fact that during Coleridge's visit to 
Wales he saw Mary Evans only to think of her as the bride of 
another. Mr. Campbell thinks that the poem is not on this 
account to be considered as having anything to do with the events 
recorded in the letter. 

I 794-1 794. 
DOMESTIC PEACE. 
From The Fall of Robespierre. Robespierre was printed 1 794. 
In September Coleridge took his tragedy to London in search of 
a publisher but could find none. He accordingly went to Cam- 
bridge where he was more successful and it was printed in October. 



310 jl^ote0 [1794 

This exquisite song Coleridge printed by itself, and it has been so 
printed in many editions of his works since his time ; as it would 
not be likely to become so well known if confined to the now little 
read tragedy. 

1794-1796. 
ON A DISCOVERY MADE TOO LATE. 

First prmted in Poems, 1796, an * Effusion xxx ' but in * contents' 
was called To My Other Heart. 

It is very evident that while Coleridge was away from Sara at 
Cambridge the old feeling toward Mary Evans returned, for in 
October he wrote this poem. Mr. Campbell thinks that Cole- 
ridge himself began the misunderstanding when on his enlistment 
he had suddenly broken off all relations with the family, because 
he suspected she loved another. The correspondence of this time 
given in Mr. Campbell's life of Coleridge reveals a most unfortunate 
situation, but no blame is to be attached to the conduct of Mary. 
This episode introduces us to a life history as pathetic as is to be 
found in that of any other English man of letters. Lamb wrote 
of this poem in 1796 : "You came to town (from Cambridge 
late in 1794) and I saw at a time when your heart was bleeding 
with recent wounds. . . . You had 

* Many an holy lay 
That mourning, soothed the mourner on his way,' 

I had ears of sympathy to drink them in. ' ' 

Mr. Campbell says : " The last six lines are but a versification 
of a passage on an undated letter addressed to Mary Evans. ' ' Cf. 
Note to A Faded Floiver. 

Wordsworth in the meantime had been in close contact with 
the tumult in France ; from the rubbish of the Bastile had gathered 
his relic and then passed in to join the bravest youths of France 
linked in gallant soldiership ; and when the September massacres 
took place the terrible city became such a fascination to him, that 
had not his funds given out he would likely have perished with his 
friends. He returned to London in December, 1792. He visited 
the Isle of Wight where he saw the English fleet preparing to 
attack France, which caused him to pray for her defeat. 



1794] j^otes; 3" 

" And, 'mid the simple worshippers, perchance 
I only, like an uninvited guest 
Whom no one owned, sate silent ; shall I add, 
Fed on the day of vengeance yet to come." 

But when later he saw France call in Napoleon he gave way to 
that inward searching which was his crisis. It was then 1 794-5 
while at Penrith with Calvert that he was returned to the dear 
sister who brought him *' back to the sweet counsels between head 
and heart." Cf. Prelude — Book XI. 

I 794-1795. 

LAFAYETTE. 

First printed in the Morning Chronicle, 1794-5. 

Coleridge left Cambridge without his degree in 1 794 and went 
again to London, taking quarters in Newgate street near his old 
school, at the Salutation and the Cat. Here he had at least one 
friend who understood and sympathized with him, Charles Lamb. 
" We sat together in the little smoky room through the winter 
nights beguiling the cares of life with Poesy," writes Lamb two 
years later. During December 1794 and January 1795 he wrote 
sonnets on the political and literary character of the time, among 
which is this to Lafayette. These sonnets interest us chiefly as 
revealing the depth, but perhaps even more, the tumult of his 
Revolutionary feelings. This sonnet is in the manner of Milton 
rather than that of Bowles. 

1 794-1 796. 

TO A FRIEND TOGETHER WITH AN UNFINISHED 

POEM. 
First printed in Poems, 1796. 

This poem was evidently the product of these weeks with Lamb, 
and occasioned by the fact that he was so often deprived of Lamb's 
company because of the terrible malady which afflicted his sister. 
Mr. Campbell thinks there is no doubt that the *' unfinished 
poem ' ' was Religious Musings. Lamb was proud of this friendship 
as is revealed in his letter to Coleridge in June, 1796, after the 
publication of Coleridge's first edition of poems. " I was glad to 



312 jl^otefi! [1794 

meet those lines you sent me when my sister was so ill. I had 
lost the copy and I felt not a little proud at seeing my name in 
your verse." 

In a note to edition of Poems, 1803, Coleridge wrote : — 
" I utterly recant the sentiment contained in the lines — 

* Of whose omniscient and all-spreading Love 
Aught to implore were impotence of mind,' 

it being written in Scripture, ' Ask, and it shall be given you,' 
and my human reason being moreover convinced of the propriety 
of offering />em/o« J as well as thanksgivings to Deity." 

1794, 1 829-1 834. 

MONODY ON THE DEATH OF CHATTERTON, LATEST 

VERSION. 

First published in its present form in Poems, 1834, but it had ap- 
peared in various forms from 1794. Cf. note p. 300, et seq. 
It was a little disturbing to Southey and the other Pantisocrats 
thus to be neglected by their comrade ; they were not even kept 
informed as to his whereabouts. So in January Southey left Bristol 
to look him up. He found him at the Angel Inn in Butcher 
Hall Street and induced him to return with him. In February, 
Southey writes: "Coleridge is writing at the same table; our 
names are written in the book of destiny on the same page." 
Coleridge began a course of lectures on Philosophy and Politics, 
while Southey lectured on History. Money was needed and as 
they had the good fortune to become acquainted with Joseph Cot- 
tle, a Bristol publisher, an avenue was opened up for the publi- 
cation of Coleridge's Poems. Through his lectures at Bristol on 
the French Revolution, Thomas Poole, a retired Bristol merchant 
became interested in the young poet. In Thomas Poole and His 
Friends, we find an interesting poem by Poole, the first stanza of 
which is : — 

" Hail to the Coleridge, youth of various powers ! 
I love to hear thy soul pour forth the line, 
To hear it sing of love and liberty 

As if fresh-breathing from the hand devine." 



1795] jl^otesf 313 

Rev. John Estlin of Bristol encouraged him to become a preacher, 
and he began at Bath preaching and lecturing. 

The Monody written in 1790 was revised. It had appeared 
altered and enlarged in Launcelot Sharpe's edition of Chatterton's 
poems in 1794. After the edition of 1796 it was somewhat 
changed from time to time until 1829, when it received the form 
given here. Throughout the additions we can see that he has 
discarded the influence of Gray for that of Spenser. 

Lines 1 21-124 are strangely prophetic of his life so like Chat- 
terton's in many ways. 

1795 ?-l 796. 
TO THE NIGHTINGALE. 
First printed in Poems, 1796. 

We are now getting some genuinely picturesque and impassioned 
poems on nature in the place of the stilted and artificial etching of 
the previous years. Mr. Campbell says this poem '* contains one 
superlatively good line — that which describes the night-watchman 
who infested the streets a century ago." 
1. Cf. Milton, To a Nightingale. 

Even while his head and heart were inhabiting this dreamland 
of hope and love, necessity with her harsh voice called him back 
to other worlds than that of Elysian Susquehanna, for he writes to 
Cottle : " Can you conveniently lend me five pounds, as we want 
a little more than four pounds to make up our lodging bill." 

1795-1796. 
COMPOSED WHILE ASCENDING THE LEFT ASCENT OF 
BROCKLEY COOMBE, SOMERSETSHIRE, MAY 1 795. 
First printed in Poems, 1796, as * Effusion xxi."" 

He now has his feet on English grass and heather and his imagi- 
nation do^s not disdain the common things that round him lie ; he 
writes with his eye on the subject not on the form and the result 
is a luxury of poetic sights and sounds, — simple, fresh and life- 
giving. One has but to visit the scene of this poem to realize how 
true are its revelations. 



314 ^Otta [1795 

1795-1796. 

THE ^OLIAN HARP. 
First printed in Poems, 1796, as ' Effusion xxxvj* 

In the summer of 1795 ^^^ joint lodgings were given up, as 
estrangement was growing between the two enthusiasts. Cottle 
thinks this was mainly due to the fact that Coleridge had failed to 
keep his engagement on one occasion to lecture in the place of 
Southey. 

Coleridge then took up lodgings at 25 College Street. Cottle 
had encouraged him so much that he felt like undertaking domes- 
tic life and consequently he was married to Sarah Fricker in Chat- 
terton's old church, St. Mary Redcliffe in October, and went at 
once to the little cottage at Clevedon, a pretty spot on the bank of 
the Severn, and only a half day's walk from Bristol. How the 
honeymoon was spent in this primitive abode in which there were 
but scanty furnishings, and only Spartan fare, is revealed in the 
poet's letters of the time, in Cottle's Reminiscences, and in this 
poem, which I am bound to believe was written then, in spite of 
the fact that he gives the date as August. 

It is interesting to know that at this very time Wordsworth and 
his sister were settling (only thirty miles away) at Racedown Lodge 
for their happy reunion after a long separation, nestling like two 
storm-tossed birds in this shy retreat remote from men. The world 
had been much with them both and now they were to begin that 
life with nature and those who teach as nature teachers. 

In this blissful springtide we get the utterance of the poet in 
Coleridge as we have not had it before. We have hoped and 
believed but our faith has had no sure foundation in his actual work. 
Here is distinctive revelation that he has freed himself from the 
shackles of teachers and had become independent. In purely liter- 
ary characteristics, vividness of description, melody and dignity of 
verse, grace and beauty of language, the young poet is unmistaka- 
bly master, while in the more significant elements of poetry, his 
new life where the affections lead him on, and nature becomes 
alive with joy in sweetly human associations, we see the beginnings 
of that splendid apocalypse which is to be : the new life of man 
and nature, in which a hard dry naturalism is to be warmed and 
ennobled by the shaping power of the imagination and coarse 



1795] il^otefif 315 

romance is to be refined and elevated by the power of truth. 
Under this magic spell of love and holy passion, there came to 
Coleridge not only new conceptions of man and nature but a new 
power of utterance, the most fascinating in melodious richness and 
natural magic in the history of English poetry. 

The poem was changed somewhat in its various editions but the 
text here is substantially that of the original except that 11. 25-33 
have been added. 

1 795-1 796. 

REFLECTIONS ON HAVING LEFT A PLACE OF RETIREMENT. 

First printed in Monthly Maga^iine, October, 1796. 

' ' An epilogue to the Clevedon honeymoon worthy of the 
Prologue." — J. D. Campbell. 

We must remember that the lark which 

" Singing, singing 
With clouds and sky about it ringing " 
builds its nest upon the ground and does not despise the earth where 
cares abound. We are glad that Coleridge had a brief period of 
unalloyed pleasure for which he seems to have been created, and we 
must not find fault that interests of the nest upon the ground 
called him back to the stern realities of life. Cottle was waiting 
for the promised volume of verse. He says : '* Coleridge's mind 
was in a singular degree distinguished for the habit of projecting. 
. . . To project with him was commonly sufficient. The execu- 
tion, of so much consequence in the estimation of others, with 
him was a secondary point. I remember him once to have read 
to me, from his pocket book, a list of eighteen different works 
which he had resolved to write, and several of them in quarto, 
not one of which he ever effected. At the top of the list appeared, 
' Pantisocracy ! 4to.' (^Reminiscences^. 

Southey had become estranged, and after marrying Edith Fricker 
had departed for Lisbon : thus the dream of a Pantisocracy fell in 
ruins. Clevedon was found too far from the Bristol library and in 
December was abandoned for Redcliffe Hill. We are not anxious 
to inquire into the reasons for all these experiences — preferring to 
leave that to those immoral critics who read moral object lessons on 



3i6 iliotesi [1796 

the failings of great men — while we turn to the enjoyment of the 
work done. Mr. Alois Brandl happily calls the previous poem 
Coleridge's U Allegro and the present one his // Penseroso, but they 
are much more than Milton's in that sense in which the landscape 
poetry of the nineteenth century possesses its peculiar charm — its 
truth to the universal while at the same time keeping close to the 
local and the particular. In consequence of this we gain new and 
fresh insight into the mind and art of the poets when we wander 
with Cowper by the languid Ouse, with Crabbe in the Suffolk Coast, 
with Burns in Ayrshire, with Coleridge and Wordsworth in the 
^uantocks and the Lakes, and with Tennyson in Lincolnshire. 

The original title was Reflections on Entering into Active Life. 
Lamb wrote immediately on reading it : " 'Tis altogether the 
sweetest thing to me you ever wrote." 

1796-1796. 
ON OBSERVING A BLOSSOM ON THE FIRST OF FEBRUARY. 
First printed in the Watchman^ No. VI, April 11, 1796. 

The need of funds became more pressing so his friends Cottle 
and Thomas Poole suggested the publication of a newspaper The 
Watchman^ and in January, 1796, Coleridge set out on a journey 
north to procure subscriptions. During this journey he preached 
in various Unitarian pulpits — clad " in blue coat and white waist- 
coat, that no rag of the woman of Babylon might be seen on him." 
It was on this journey that this little poem was written for The 
Watchman. 

\. 12. Chatterton. 

1796 ?-i836. 

TO . 

First printed by H. N. Coleridge in The Remains, 1836, as a 

* Fragment.' 

This little poem cannot be accurately placed but Mr. Campbell 
gives the following note : * ' This perfect little poem was found in 
the 'Commonplace Book, c. 1 795-1 797' and printed by H. N, 
Coleridge as a 'Fragment' in the Remains (i, 280) Assuredly 
there is nothing fragmentary about it," 



1796] ^ote0 317 

1 796-1 796. 

TO A PRIMROSE, THE FIRST SEEN IN THE SEASON. 
First printed in the Watchman No. VIII April 27, 1796. 

" Rescued from the Remains (i. 47) from the Watchman No. 
VIII, April 27, 1796, — as presumably Coleridge's, though it 
has no signature. — J. Dykes Campbell. 

1 796-1 797. 

SONNET, TO A FRIEND, WHO ASKED HOW I FELT WHEN 
THE NURSE FIRST PRESENTED MY INFANT TO ME. 

First printed in Poems, 1797. 

This memorable year in Coleridge's life was to close with one 
more significant contribution to the Muse. 

The long promised volume of poems appeared in April of this 
year and was on the whole favorably received. The first poem in 
the Contents was the Monody on Death of Chatterton and the last, 
Religious Musings. It contained fifty-one poems all but fifteen of 
which were classed as Effusions, among these were four sonnets by 
Lamb. In May the last number of The Watchman was published 
with a note, "The reason is short and satisfactory — the work 
does not pay expenses." Anticipating this collapse, Poole had 
collected a purse for the editor. Cf. Thomas Poole and his Friends, 
i. pp. 142—145. " When the purse arrived," says Mr. Campbell, 
" the cupboard was empty." Coleridp^'- '' ^n engaged as assistant 
editor of the London Morning C'. ^,ncte, but his love for Bristol 
was too strong and he gave it up. Other plans were made but fell 
through. He visited his old home at Ottery : of this he writes : 
" I was received by my mother with transport, and by my brother 
George with joy and tenderness." 

While on a visit to the Lloyds making arrangements to take 
Charles, one of their sons into his family, a son was born to him 
September 19. He hastened home taking his pupil with him. 

His feelings on this occasion are revealed in three inconsiderable 
sonnets. I give the third of these chiefly for the beautiful last lines. 
It was addressed to Lamb, who, on receiving it, wrote : "I will 
keep my eyes open reluctantly a minute longer to tell you that I 



31 8 jliotefli [1796 

love you for those simple, tender, heart flowing lines with which 
you conclude. . . . Cultivate simplicity, Coleridge. ... I allow 
no hotbeds in the gardens of Parnassus. ' ' 

As Coleridge at this time had great dislike for all sacramental 
rites, the child was not given baptism but named David Hartley, 
after the great philosopher, of whom he wrote in Religious 
Musings : 

" Him of mortal kind 
Wisest, he first who mark'd the ideal tribes 
Up the fine fibres through the sentient brain 
Pass in fine surges." 

How his feelings toward the ordinances of the church mellowed 
as time went on may be seen from the following from Table Talk^ 
August 9, 1832. "I think the baptismal service almost perfect. 
. . . None of the services of the church eflfect me so much as 
this." 

1796?-! 799. 

LINES COMPOSED IN A CONCERT-ROOM. 

First printed in the Morning Post, 1799. 

I have placed this poem here for it is evident from Lamb's Let- 
ters, Ainger I, 3 1 that it existed in whole or in part thus early. 
Inasmuch as he has just visited his old home at Ottery, it is quite 
possible that it may have some connection with the memories there 
recalled. I have omitted the first three stanzas as quite unworthy 
of the others. 

1. 16. Dear Annie, Mr. J. Dykes Campbell says : " The poem 
may well be a recast of some early verses for the * dear Annie ' to 
whom it is addressed may have been his favorite sister of that name 
whom he lost in 1791." 

1 796-1 796; 

ODE ON THE DEPARTING YEAR. 

First printed in the Cambridge Intelligence, December 31, 1796. 

Religious Musings and Ode on the Destiny of Nations belong to 
this year, and although they contain powerful lines they are full of 



1797] jptotes; 319 

dazzling imagery ; but in this Ode written in December we find that 
he has begun to follow Lamb's advice as to pruning. It is not free 
from the faults of his masters in the old school but it is distinctly 
new in "impetuosity of transition, and fulness of fancy and feel- 
ing." The metrical movement is natural and graceful, in perfect 
harmony with the varying moods : a solemn symphony in words. 

It was written for the Cambridge Intelligencer and was dedicated 
to Thomas Poole of Stowey. The Argument was added later. 

1. 33. dread name. '* The Name of Liberty, which at the 
commencement of the French Revolution was both the occasion 
and the pretext of remembered crimes." — S. T. C. 

1. 40. Northern Conqueress. Empress of Russia who perpe- 
trated the Massacre of Ismail. 

1. 63. My soul beheld thy vision. " Thy image in a vision." 
S. T. C. 

1. 135. Abandoned by heaven. " Of the one hundred and 
seven last years, fifty have been years of war." — S. T. C. 

1 797-1 797. 
TO THE REV. GEORGE COLERIDGE. 
First printed in Poems^ 1797- 

This is the annus mirabilis in the life of Coleridge. He had a 
desire to get away from the life of the city, to be near Poole in 
the country. He writes : '* My anxieties eat me up. I want con- 
solation. My Friend ! My Brother ! Write and console me." 
Poole owned a little cottage at Stowey which at first he did not 
think suitable, but Coleridge begged so hard saying, '* If we can but 
contrive to make two rooms ivarm and ^wholesome we will laugh in 
the faces of Gloom and Ill-lookingness," that he set about putting 
it in order. Coleridge moved hither on the last day of the year 
1796, and wrote at once: "We are 'very happy, and my little 
David Hartley grows a sweet boy. I raise potatoes, and all man- 
ner of vegetables ; have an orchard, and shall raise corn enough for 
my family. We have live pigs, and ducks and geese." Poole's 
house was near at hand, their gardens joining. 

Upon this cottage occupied by Coleridge there was put in 1893 a 
tablet inscribed, *' Here Samuel Taylor Coleridge made his home 
1 797-1 800," and funds have been raised to purchase it so that it 



320 jpote0 [1797 

may be preserved as has been Dove Cottage the home of Words- 
worth. 

He now set about a second edition of his poems, with a few by 
Lamb and Lloyd ; these were published in May, with this poem to 
his brother as 'Dedication.' Mr. Campbell says: " In a copy 
of the 1 797 edition, now in the possession of Mr. Frederick Locker- 
Lampson, Coleridge has written underneath this Dedication as 
follows : — 

' N. B. — If this volume should ever be delivered according to 
its direction, i. e. to Posterity, let it be known that the Reverend 
George Coleridge was displeased and thought his character endan- 
gered by this Dedication. — S. T. Coleridge.' " 

This must be an error ; he could not have taken displeasure at the 
dedication, but he might have disliked some of its contents. It is a 
tender and beautiful tribute to his brother, full of grace and sweetness, 
love and loyalty : grave and gay by turns, yet dignified and calm. 

1. 10. Added in 1803. 

1. 20. Coleridge on his N. Welsh tour of 1794, John Hucks, 
addressed some lines to him in his Poems, 1798, with this line, 

' * Deem not the friendship of your earlier days 
False, tho' chance-started." — Campbell. 

I. 32. T. Poole. 

II. 63-64. Evidently allude to congratulatory verse sent Coleridge 
by George when he won the Browne medal for his Sapphic Ode at 
Cambridge. 

1 797-1 800. 

LINES TO WM. LINLEY, ESQ. 
First printed in Annual Anthology^ 1800. 

Mr. Campbell says, ' ' The original manuscript is dated ' Don- 
head, Sept. 12, 1797. To Mr. William Linley.' William Lin- 
ley was the brother of the beautiful Mrs. Richard Brinsley Sheridan, 
Sir Joshua's 'St. Cecilia.' " 

1 797-1 809. 

THE THREE GRAVES. 

Parts III and IV were first printed in The Friend No. VI, Sept. 
21, 1809. 



1797] jl^otes! 321 

Coleridge also wrote early in this year a tragedy Osorio for Sheri- 
dan at Drury Lane ; and the life at Stowey was enlivened by visits 
of his friends, Lamb and his sister. At the same time he writes to 
Cottle : '* The mice play the very devil with us. It irks me to 
set a trap. By all the whiskers of all the pussies that have mewed 
. . , since the days of Whittington, it is not fair." It was during 
these days that he began The Three Gra'ves^ which was not com- 
pleted until I §09, when parts III and IV were printed in The 
Friend No. VI, Sept. 21. He called it ' A fragment of a Com- 
mon Ballad-Tale,' saying, "Its merits, if any, are exclusively 
psychological." He had been reading of the effect of witchcraft 
on the negroes of the West Indies and on the Copper Indians, and 
wished to show that such effects were not confined to them. 

Speaking of such revelations as we have in Coleridge's romantic 
poems Mr. George Dawson says : "It does appear to me that 
these strange and vague feelings are instruments to keep alive within 
us our faith in an unseen and spiritual world. We are content to 
feel it, and to hold it, when we have been argued out of it. These 
feelings, vague and mystic, fan the flame of faith, and keep it alive." 

It is not known if Parts V and VI were ever written, but Mr. 
Campbell found Parts I and II in Coleridge's papers. 

One needs only to read the previous poetry of the Churchyard 
School to see how far Coleridge has passed beyond anything which 
it suggests. Here is the beginning of that blank verse idyle carried 
to such perfection of artistic finish by Tennyson. 

Coleridge continues the landscape art which he began at Clevedon 
and which makes the region of Stowey so interesting to the lover of 
his poems. We can also readily discover that he is sailing at least in 
the harbor of the perilous seas ; the world of wonders was revealing 
. to him its depths. It is the beginning of a group of poems of 
wondrous melody, and the most weirdly fascinating in revelations of 
the natural and supernatural to be found in literature. 

It would be interesting to compare this work of Coleridge with 
that of Goethe after his period of Titanism and revolution in Goetz 
von Berlichingen and Werther had passed and he had learned that 
to build was better than to destroy. 

Mr. Campbell says : " Much of the original manuscript copy 
from which The Friend was printed at Penrith is in the handwrit- 
ing of Mrs. Wordsworth's sister Miss Sarah Hutchinson. 



322 Jtote0 [1797 

Part I, 11. 42-44. *' Uncertain whether this stanza is erased, 
or merely blotted in the MSS." — J. D. Campbell, 

Carme?i reUquum in futurum tempus relegatum. To-morrow ! 
and To-morrow ! and To-morrow ! — [NoteofS.T.C. — 1815.] 

1797-1800. 
THIS LIME TREE BOWER MY PRISON. 
First printed in Annual Anthology^ 1800. 

We now arrive at the most important event in Coleridge's life. 

The Wordsworths had been living at Racedown, about thirty 
miles away, now for two years, and happy years they were, full of 
radiant enjoyment. They were separated from the world, but they 
had communion with each other and with nature. " With this, 
in their innocent frugality and courage, they faced the world like a 
new pair of babes in the wood." Coleridge, on hearing that the 
author of Descriptive Sketches was so near, took an early opportu- 
nity (in June) of visiting him. Dorothy tells us " the first thing 
that was read on that occasion was ' The Ruined Cottage ' with 
which Coleridge was so much delighted ; and after tea he repeated 
to us two acts and a half of his tragedy Osorio. The next morn- 
ing William read his tragedy The Borderers. 

That this was a clear case of love at first sight is shown by the 
letters written to their friends at this time. Dorothy writes : ** You 
had a great loss in not seeing Coleridge. He is a wonderful man. 
His conversation teems with soul, mind, and spirit. . . . He has 
more of ' the poet's eye in fine frenzy rolling ' than I ever wit- 
nessed. He has fine dark eyebrows and an overhanging forehead." 
Coleridge in his account of this visit says, ** I speak with heartfelt 
sincerity, and, I think, unblinded judgment, when I tell you that I 
feel myself a little man by his side." When the Wordsworths 
returned this visit and went to Nether Stowey, Coleridge gives this 
beautiful picture of Dorothy : " W. and his exquisite sister are 
with me. She is a woman indeed ! in mind and heart ; for her 
person is such that if you expected to see a pretty woman, you 
would think her rather ordinary ; if you expected to see an ordi- 
nary woman, you would think her pretty ! but her manners are 



1797] jpotesf 323 

simple, ardent, impressive. In every motion her most innocent 
soul outbeams so brightly, that vi^ho saw would say 

* Guilt was a thing impossible to her, ' 

Her information various. Her eye watchful in minutest observa- 
tion of nature ; and her taste a perfect electrometer. ' ' Words- 
worth wrote, " Coleridge is the most ivonderful man I ever met." 

They soon returned Coleridge's visit and found Lamb and his 
sister at Stowey. While they were there Coleridge, unable to take 
the walks with them, wrote this poem as he was seated in the bower 
he called Elysium. Mrs. Sandford speaking of a meeting there 
with Cottle says : " And pretty Mrs. Coleridge coming out to 
join them with her boy in her arms appeared like a poetic embodi- 
ment of the idea of Woman, bringing with her the ' smile of 
home ' to complete the charm of that delicious day. ' ' 

Mr. Richard Garnett says : " Coleridge was simply a great lyri- 
cal poet, who, throughout his annus mirabilis of 1797, and for 
some time afterwards, was in a state of joyous exaltation from the 
new world of poetry which had been disclosed to him by Words- 
worth." 

An interesting subject for consideration in connection with the 
study of literature would be the work poets have done in develop- 
ing patriotism by showing how much stronger and deeper is the 
love of country when thus associated with the love of home with 
its simple and substantial comforts and its endearments of natural 
associations — rivers, woods and hills, forests, lakes and vales : and 
also how by revealing the beauty of places in a country they have 
made it more beloved. There is fascinating wandering in Ireland, 
Wales, Scotland and England for one who wishes to read such 
poetry in the scenes of its birth, and such wandering is the very 
best lesson in political as well as literary history. 

The region of Dorsetshire and Somersetshire, with a wealth of 
natural beauty, forest, and hills, cultivated farms, open sea pro- 
spect, and simple life, was an ideal place for the creation of such 
poetry as these enthusiasts on man, on nature and on human life 
desired to give to the world. In Dorothy's letters and journal we 
have the best of guides in these delightful retreats. She writes : 
*' There is everything here, — sea, woods, wild as fancy ever 
painted, brooks, clear and pebbly as in Cumberland ; villages 



324 jl^ote0 [1797 

romantic . . . the deer dwell here and sheep, so that we have a 
living prospect. . . . Wherever we turn we have woods, smooth 
downs, and valleys with small brooks running down them, through 
green meadows, hardly ever intersected with hedgerows, but scat- 
tered ever with trees. The hills that cradle these valleys are either 
covered with fern and bilberries, or oak woods, walks extend for 
miles over the hilltops ; the great beauty of which is their wild 
simplicity. ' ' 

1 797-1 798. 

FIRE, FAMINE AND SLAUGHTER. 

" The Scene a desolated Tract in La Vendee. Famine is discov- 
ered lying on the ground ; to her enter Fire and Slaughter." 

First printed in the Morning Post, Jan. 8, 1 798. 

As early as 1 794 Coleridge became very bitter in denunciation 
of the policy of Burke and Pitt and wrote a sonnet upon each of 
these leaders full of venom. These he afterwards recalled in edi- 
tion of 1797. In a note to the sonnet on Burke he said : " Peace 
be to his spirit when he departs from us ; this is the severest pun- 
ishment I wish him — that he may be appointed under-porter to 
St. Peter and be obliged to open the gates of heaven to Brissot, 
Roland, Condorcet, Fayette and Priestley." 

It was natural, therefore, that when he published this poem it 
should have been regarded as a continuance of that old controversy, 
but when he learned this he wrote an Apologetic Preface to the 
edition of 1 817 in which he said : "I have merely generalized the 
causes of the war, and thus personified the abstract and christened 
it by the name which I have been accustomed to hear most often 
associated with its management and measures. I have had as 
little notion of a real person of flesh and blood ' distinguishable in 
number, joint and limb,' as Milton had in the grim and terrible 
phantoms (half person, half allegory) which he has placed at the 
Gates of Hell." 

In Cottle's Reminiscences p. 16 there is an interesting letter 
from Liberty to Famine which Coleridge recited at one of his Anti- 
Pittite lectures in Bristol i 795, which has a direct relation to the 
poem. 



1797] ilioteflf 325 

1 797-8-1 8 1 6. 

KUBLA KHAN. 

First published in 1 8 1 6 with the title Kubla Khan : or ji Vision 
in a Dream in the same pamphlet which contained Christabel 
and The Pains of Sleep. 

How Coleridge's genius responded to the magical influence of 
the new life which came through Wordsworth is one of the most 
interesting bits of literary history which the world has ever seen. 
With what joyous exaltation he enters into the new world of life 
and art, is revealed in this poem in which the melody of unearthly 
music bears us into a realm where we are laid asleep in body and 
become a living soul. It is but a fragment — *' a splendid curi- 
osity, a lyrical landscape fairy tale." 

It was suggested by an account given in Purchas' Pilgrimage of a 
palace of the thirteenth century which belong to the Tartar Khan, 
Kublai. With its history is associated an experience of singular 
nature. Being in ill-health he retired to a farmhouse between 
Porlock and Linton. While there an anodyne was prescribed and 
after reading Purchas' Pilgrimage he fell asleep and composed 
several hundred lines " without any sensation or consciousness of 
effort." On awakening he took pen to write them down and 
while thus employed was called out by a visitor who detained him 
an hour, and when he returned the remainder of the vision had 
perished. 

1. 1-5. Leigh Hunt says : *' What a grand flood is this, 
flowing down through measureless caverns to a sea without a sun ! 
I know no other sea equal to it except Keats' in his Ode to a 
Nightingale.'''' 

Lamb in 1 81 6 wrote of Coleridge's recitation of the Kubla 
Khan — "which said vision he repeats so enchantingly that it 
irradiates and brings heaven and Elysian bowers into my parlour 
when he sings or says it . . . his face when he repeats his verses 
hath its ancient glory ; an archangel a little damaged." 

Of Coleridge's poems of which Kubla Khan is a type Mr. Stop- 
ford Brooke says: "They stand alone, and all lovers of poetry 
keep them in their heart. They are as lovely as they are love- 
begetting, and while the world lasts they will ravish the imagina- 



326 jliote0 [1797 

tion of men. Their music is perfect, and the spirit of them is as 
akin to childhood as to age. The lover loves them though they 
do not speak of love. The lover of wisdom loves them though 
they do not speak of philosophy. The lover of Nature loves them, 
though they speak, only incidentally, of Nature, and all lovers of 
folklore, from those wild men who peopled the Universe with 
beings who were not themselves, to us who recollect these tales, 
that we may live in that alluring world, love them or would have 
loved them dearly." 

There is some doubt as to the exact date of this poem but it 
belongs to that joyous time of 1797-8. 



1797, 8-1798. 

THE ANCIENT MARINER. 

First printed anonymously in First Edition oi Lyrical Ballads j 1798. 

After reading the expressions of delight of these two young men 
in each other, we are not surprised that a month later the Words- 
worths removed to Alfoxden near Nether Stowey, Somersetshire, 
where Coleridge resided. 

The poets rambled over the Quantock Hills and held high 
communion. During one of these excursions, feeling the need of 
money, they planned a joint production for the New Monthly 
Magazine. They set about the work in earnest, and selected as 
a subject the Ancyent Marinere^ founded upon a dream of one of 
Coleridge's friends. Coleridge supplied most of the incidents and 
almost all the lines. Wordsworth contributed the incident of the 
killing of the albatross and a few of the lines. They soon found 
that their methods did not harmonize, and the Marinere was left 
to Coleridge, while Wordsworth wrote upon the common incidents 
of everyday life. When the Marinere was finished Wordsworth 
had so many pieces ready that they concluded to publish a joint 
volume, and this they did under the title Lyrical Ballads, with the 
Rime of the Ancyent Marinere heading the volume. We will let 
each one give his version of this eventful undertaking. 

In the manuscript notes which Wordsworth left we find this 
record : — 

"In the autumn of 1 797, Mr. Coleridge, my sister, and myself 



1797] i|iote0 327 

started from Alfoxden pretty late in the afternoon with a view to 
visit Linton and the Valley of Stones near to it ; and as our united 
funds were very small, we agreed to defray the expense of the tour 
by writing a poem to be sent to the Nenv Monthly Magazine. 
Accordingly, we set off, and proceeded along the Quantock Hills 
towards Watchet ; and in the course of this walk was planned the 
poem of the Ancient Mariner founded on a dream, as Mr. Cole- 
ridge said, of his friend Mr. Cruikshank. Much the greatest 
part of the story was Mr. Coleridge's invention, but certain parts I 
suggested 5 for example, some crime was to be committed which 
should bring upon the Old Navigator, as Coleridge afterwards de- 
lighted to call him, the spectral persecution, as a consequence 
of that crime and his own wanderings. I had been reading in 
Shelvocke's Voyages^ a day or two before, that while doubling 
Cape Horn, they frequently saw albatrosses in that latitude, the 
largest sort of sea fowl, some extending their wings twelve or 
thirteen feet. ' Suppose,' said I, ' you represent him as having 
killed one of these birds on entering the South Sea, and that 
the tutelary spirits of these regions take upon them to avenge 
the crime.' The incident was thought fit for the purpose, and 
adopted accordingly. I also suggested the navigation of the ship 
by the dead men, but do not recollect that I had anything more 
to do with the scheme of the poem. The gloss with which it 
was subsequently accompanied was not thought of by either of us 
at the time, at least, not a hint of it was given to me, and 
I have no doubt it was a gratuitous afterthought. We began 
the composition together on that, to me, memorable evening. I 
furnished two or three hnes at the beginning of the poem, in par- 
ticular. 

* And listened like a three years' child : 

The Mariner had his wUl. ' 

These trifling contributions, all but one, which Mr. C. has with 
unnecessary scrupulosity recorded, — 

* And thou art long and lank, and brown 

As is the ribbed sea-sand, ' — 

slipped out of his mind, as well they might. As we endeavored 
to proceed conjointly (I speak of the same evening), our respec- 



328 jpotesi [1797 

tive manners proved so widely different that it would have been 
quite presumptuous in me to do anything but separate from an 
undertaking upon which I could only have been a clog. . . . 
The Ancient Mariner grew and grew till it became too im- 
portant for our first object, which was limited to our expecta- 
tion of five pounds j and we began to think of a volume which 
was to consist, as Mr. Coleridge has told the world, of poems 
chiefly on supernatural subjects." 

Coleridge in the Biographia Literaria, Chap. XIV. says : — 
'* During the first year that Mr. Wordsworth and I were neigh- 
bours, our conversations turned frequently on the two cardinal points 
of poetry, the power of exciting the sympathy of the reader by a 
faithful adherence to the truth of nature, and the power of giving 
the interest of novelty by the modifying colours of imagination. 
The sudden charm, which accidents of light and shade, which 
moonlight or sunset, diffused over a known and familiar land- 
scape, appeared to represent the practicability of combining both. 
These are the poetry of nature. The thought suggested itself 
(to which of us I do not recollect) that a series of poems 
might be composed of two sorts. In the one, the incidents 
and agents were to be, in part at least, supernatural 5 and the 
excellence aimed at was to consist in the interesting of the affec- 
tions by the dramatic truth of such emotions, as would natu- 
rally accompany such situations, supposing them real. And real 
in this sense they have been to every human being who, from 
whatever source of delusion, has at any time believed himself 
under supernatural agency. For the second class, subjects were 
to be chosen from ordinary life ; the characters and incidents 
were to be such as will be found in every village and its vicinity 
where there is a meditative and feeling mind to seek after them, or 
to notice them when they present themselves. 

"In this idea originated the plan of the Lyrical Ballads, in 
which it was agreed that my endeavours should be directed to 
persons and characters supernatural, or at least romantic ; yet so 
as to transfer from our inward nature a human interest and a 
semblance of truth sufficient to procure for these shadows of 
imagination that willing suspension of disbelief for the moment, 
which constitutes poetic faith. Mr. Wordsworth, on the other 
hand, was to propose to himself as his object, to give the charm of 



1797] jliotesf 329 

novelty to things of every day, and to excite a feeling analogous to 
the supernatural, by awakening the mind's attention from the 
lethargy of custom, and directing it to the loveliness and the won- 
ders of the world before us; an inexhaustible treasure, but for 
which, in consequence of the film of familiarity and selfish solici- 
tude, we have eyes yet see not, ears that hear not, and hearts that 
neither feel nor understand. 

' ' With this view I wrote the Ancient Mariner, and was prepar- 
ing, among other poems, the Dark Ladie, and the Christabel, in 
which I should have more nearly realized my ideal than I had done 
in my first attempt. But Mr. Wordsworth's industry had proved 
so much more successful, and the number of his poems so much 
greater, that my compositions, instead of forming a balance, ap- 
peared rather an interpolation of heterogeneous matter. Mr. Words- 
worth added two or three poems written in his own character, m 
the impassioned, lofty, and sustained diction which is characteris- 
tic of his genius. In this form the Lyrical Ballads were pub- 
lished." 

TRANSLATION OF THE MOTTO FROM BURNET. 

I readily believe that there are more invisible beings in the uni- 
verse than visible. But who will explain to us the nature of all 
these, the rank, relationships, distinguishing characteristics and 
functions of each ? What is it they do ? Where is it they dwell ? 
Always human thought circles around the knowledge of these mys- 
teries, never touching the centre. Meanwhile it is, I confess, oft- 
times well pleasing to behold sketched upon the mind, as upon 
a tablet, a picture of the greater and better world ; so shall the 
spirit, wonted to the petty concerns of daily life, not narrow itself 
overmuch, nor sink utterly into trivialities. But meanwhile we 
must diligently s.^v,- .uth, and maintain a temperate judgment, 

if we would distinguish certainty from uncertainty, day from 
night. T. Burnet: Archaol. Phil., p. 68. 



The Ancient Mariner was first printed anonymously in the first 
edition of Lyrical Ballads in 1798, with the title : The Rime of 
the Ancyent Mariner in Sen; en Parts. An Advertisement, which 
was the germ of Wordsworth's famous Prefaces, and an Argu- 



33® jl^otes; [1797 

ment, introduced the poem. In the second edition of the Lyrical 
Ballads (1800), the title was changed to The Ancient Mariner^ a 
Poet'' s Re-verie. The Argument was altered, the text was much 
changed, and the extreme archaisms in spelling disappeared. The 
text was reprinted in Lyrical Ballads, 1802 and 1805, but the 
Argument was omitted. It next appeared in Sibylline Lea-ves, with 
the Motto from Burnet, a few changes of text, the element of the 
horrible made less prominent, the marginal gloss added, and the 
Argument of 1798 restored. 

The Ancient Mariner and Christabel are charged with the spirit 
of the old romance, which returned to England in the ballad litera- 
ture of Percy's Reliques, Macpherson's Ossian and the imaginative 
mediaevalism of Chatterton. 

" In Coleridge personally," says Mr. Walter Pater, *' this taste 
had been encouraged by his odd and out-of-the-way reading in the 
old-fashioned literature of the marvellous — books like Purchas's 
Pilgrims, early voyages like Hakluyt's, old naturalists and visionary 
moralists, like Thomas Burnet, from whom he quotes the motto of 
the Ancient Mariner. Fancies of the strange things which may 
very well happen, even in broad daylight, to men shut up alone in 
ships far off on the sea, seem to have occurred to the human mind 
in all ages with a peculiar readiness." 

Mr. J. Dykes Campbell says that besides the indebtedness to a 
dream of their Stowey friend Cruikshank, the passage in Shel- 
vocke, and the handling of the ship by the spirits, Mr. J. F. 
Nicholls, City Librarian of Bristol, has suggested a very probable 
hint from Captain Thomas James's Strange and Dangerous Voy- 
age . . . in his Intended Disccvery of the North-West Passage 
into the South Sea : London, 1 63 3. Mr. Nicholls says : *' It is 
very likely indeed that S. T. Coleridge, who was a regular fre- 
quenter of our City Library, devised his marrow-chilling scenes de- 
picted in that unique and immortal poem. The Ancient Mariner^ 
from Captain James's Strange and Dangerous Voyage. Mr. Ivor 
James, in an article, The Source of the Ancient Mariner (^Athe- 
naum, 1890), makes much of this theory." 

Still, again, it has been suggested that the idea may have been 
stimulated by '' The Letter of Saint Paulinus to Macarius, in 
which he relates astounding wonders concerning the shipwreck of 
an old man." This document is to be found in La Bigne's Magna 



1797] ilioce^ 331 

Bibliotheca Veterum Pairum, 1 6 18. In this story the old man is 
the sole survivor of the ship's crew ; the ship was navigated by a 
" Crew of Angels," " steered by the Pilot of the World to the 
Lucanian Shore." 

While it is not impossible that Coleridge derived some hints from 
the above, yet I fancy he would say to all this wool gathering as 
did Tennyson : " There is, I fear, a prosaic set growing up among 
us — editors of booklets, book-worms, index-hunters, or men of 
great memories and no imagination — who impute themsel'ves to the 
poet, and so believe that he, too, has no imagination, but is forever 
poking his nose between the pages of some old volume in order to 
see what he can appropriate." 

The natural analogy to this influence of early associations upon 
Coleridge is to be found in the life of Scott. Scott was born in 
literary Edinburgh, but on account of physical infirmity he was 
early taken to the farm of his paternal grandfather at Sandy- 
knowe, on the slopes of Smailholm crags. At the summit of 
the crags stood the grim old sentinel, Smailholm tower, guard- 
ing the Borderland, where '* every field has its battle and every 
rivulet its song." Not far away was the venerable Abbey of 
Dryburgh, the Eildons, and the stretches of Lammermoor, Mel- 
rose, ** like some tall rock with lichens gay," almost encircled by 
the Tweed, while the vales of Ettrick and Yarrow, fragrant with 
song and ballad, could be seen in the distance. 

'* And rising from those lofty groves, 
Behold a Ruin hoary ! 
The shattered front of Newark's Towers, 
Renowned in Border story." 

Such were the sights that fed the wandering eyes of Scott's in- 
fancy and boyhood, while his ear was trained to ballad, song, and 
story by the grandmother and her auld gudeman. His aunt fired 
his imagination by the tales of Jamie Telfer, Wat of Harden, 
wight Willie, and by the old ballads. *' Hardiknute," says 
Scott, *' was the first poem I ever learnt, and the last I shall ever 
forget." Scott confesses his indebtedness to Coleridge. 

" Coleridge's beautiful and tantalizing fragments of Chrhtabel 
(then in MS.), which, from the irregularity of the stanzas, and 
the liberty which it allowed the author to adapt the sound to the 



332 0Ott& [»797 

sense, seemed to be exactly suited to such an extravaganza as I 
meditated, and it is to Mr. Coleridge that I am bound to make the 
acknowledgment due from the pupil to his master." 

Part I. 

Compare other sea poetry with this poem ; the grand old ballad 
of Sir Patrick Spens, Tennyson's The Re-venge, The Sailor Boy, 
and Longfellow's ff^reck of the Hesperus. 

The Ancient Mariner is in direct line with that remarkable 
strain of the sea in English poetry, which extends ftom the Wan- 
derer to Kipling's Se'ven Seas. 

Coleridge says of his early home : 

"We could hear 
At silent noon, and eve, and early morn. 
The sea's faint murmur." 

13. He holds him tvith his glittering eye. Coleridge was re- 
markable for his power to attract listeners to his marvellous conver- 
sation. At Christ's Hospital and at Cambridge his large grey eye 
sparkled with a noble madness which held his comrades as if by 
magic. Of his later power in the same direction, Carlyle says : 
<' He distinguished himself to all that ever heard him as at least 
the most surprising talker extant in this world. His thoughts did 
not seem to come with labour and effort, but as if borne on the 
gusts of genius, and as if the wings of his imagination lifted him 
from his feet." 

Wordsworth alludes to him as 

'' The rapt one of the godlike forehead. 
The heaven-eyed creature." 

" Let the dullest clod that ever vegetated," says Christopher 
North, " be shut up in a room with Coleridge, or in a wood, an-d 
subjected for a few minutes to the ethereal influence of that won- 
derful man's monologue, and he will begin to believe himself a 
poet. . . . While he is discoursing, the world loses all its common- 
places, and you and your wife imagine yourself Adam and Eve lis- 
tening to the affable Archangel, Raphael, in the Garden of Eden." 

In My First Acquaintance ivith the Poets, Hazlitt alludes to a 
visit of Coleridge to his father's house in 1798. He says: 



1797] ^om 333 

"When the poet preacher took leave I accompanied him six 
miles on the road. It was a fine morning in the middle of 
winter, and he talked the whole way. The scholar in Chaucer 
is described as going 

" Sounding on his way." 

So Coleridge went on his. In digressing, in dilating, in passing 
from subject to subject, he appeared to me to float in air, to slide 
on ice. . . . On my way back I had a sound in my ears — it was 
the voice of Fancy ; I had a light before me — it was the face of 
Poetry." 

This stanza was contributed by Wordsworth. 

25-28. The sun came up^ etc. What is the effect of the mono- 
syllabic words here ? 

41-44. And noiv the Storm-blast came, etc. Mr. J. Dykes 
Campbell has changed the gloss here from dratvn, as most editions 
give it, to dri'ven. The Storm-blast chased the ship along, and 
hence dri'ven seemed the natural word to use here. 

51-70. And noiv there came, etc. Mr. Traill says: ''The 
details of the voyage are all chronicled with such order and regu- 
larity, there is such a diary-like air about the whole thing, that we 
accept it almost as if it were a series of extracts from a ship's log. 
Mr. J. Dykes Campbell gives the following data from the log of 
Captain James' 'Northwest passage.' The reader may judge as 
to the probability that Coleridge had read them. 

" ' All day and all night it snowed hard 5 ' 'the nights are very 
fold ; so that our rigging freezes ; ' ' It proved very thick foule 
weather, and the next day we found ourselves encompassed about 
with ice ; ' ' We had ice not farre off about us, and some pieces as 
high as our Top-mast-head ; ' ' We heard the rutt against a bank 
of ice that lay on the shoare. It made a hollow and hideous 
noise ; ' ' The ice cracked all over the Bay with a fearfull noyse. ' ' ' 

63. Suggested by Wordsworth. 

79-82. God sa-ve thee^ etc. Cf. The Ra-ven. 

Part II. 
97, 98. Nor dim nor red, etc. Professor Dowden says of 
these two lines : " The sunrise at sea is like the solemn apparition 
of one of the chief actors in the drama of crime, and agony, and 



334 ipotes; [1797 

expiation, and in the new sense of wonder with which we witness 
that oldest spectacle of the heavens we can well believe in other 
miracles." 

104. The furroiv folloived free. In Sibylline Lea-ves (^iSlj) 
the line was printed — 

"The fiirrow stream' d off free." 

And Coleridge added this footnote, " In the former editions the 
line was — 

" The furrow follow' d free," 

but I had not been long on board the ship before I perceived that 
this was the image as seen by a spectator from the shore or from 
another vessel. From the ship itself the ivake appears like a brook 
flowing off from the stern." In the edition of 1828 and later 
ones the earlier reading was restored. 

1 19-122. f^ater, water, e'veryiv here, etc. Cf. Tempest, Act 
iii. Sc. 3. 

127-130. About, about, etc. A touch of Middleton and 
Shakespeare here. 

" Black spirits and white j 
Red spirits and gray ; 
Mingle, mingle, mingle. 
You that mingle may. ' ' 

Thomas Middleton, The Witch. 

** Fair is foul and foul is fair : 

Hover through the fog and filthy air." 

Macbeth, Act i. Sc. I. 
Part III. 

164. They for joy did grin. " I took the thought of grinning 
for joy from my companion's (Berdmare of Jesus Coll., Cam- 
bridge) remark to me when we had climbed to the top of Plin- 
limmon, and were fairly dead with thirst. We could not speak 
from the constriction tiU we found a little puddle under a stone. 
He said to me, ' You grinned like an idiot ! ' He had done the 
same." — Table Talk, May 31, 1830. 

1 84. Gossamer es. The fine film network to be seen in the air 
on summer evenings. The old legend says these are the remnants 
of the Virgin Mary's winding sheet, which fell from her when she 
was translated. 



'797] jfiotefl? 335 

185-189. Are those her ribs, etc. A MS. correction by Cole- 
ridge of the corresponding stanza in edition of 1798 was, — 

" Are those her ribs which fleck' d the sun 
Like bars of a dungeon grate ? 
Are those two all, all of the crew, 
That woman and her mate ? ' ' 

•' The following stanza was found in Coleridge's handwriting on 
the margin of a copy of the Bristol (1798) edition of Lyrical Bal- 
lads.'"'' — J. Dykes Campbell, 

" This ship it was a plankless thing, 
A bare Anatomy ! 
A plankless Spectre, and it mov'd 

Like a being of the Sea ! 
The woman and a fleshless man 
Therein sate merrUy." 

" The two palpable intruders from a spiritual world in almost all 
ghost literature — in Scott and Shakespeare even — have a kind 
of crudity or coarseness. Coleridge's power is in the very fineness 
with which, as by some really ghostly finger, he brings home to our 
inmost sense his inventions, daring as they are." — Walter Pater. 

193. The Night-mare, etc. 

"The Night-mare Life-in-Death, she it was who, with her 
numbing spell, haunted Coleridge himself in after days." — Dow- 
den. 

In the edition of 1798, after this stanza will be found another very 
gruesome and hideous. " Coleridge felt," says Professor Dowden, 
' * that these hideous incidents of the grave only detracted from the 
finer horror of the voluptuous beauty of his white devil, the Night- 
mare Life-in-Death." 

199-202. The Suns rim dips, etc. Lowell alludes to these 
lines as having the " unashamed nakedness of Scripture, of the 
Eden of diction ere the voluble serpent had entered it." 

201-208. With far-heard ivhisper, etc. Mr. J. Dykes Camp- 
bell gives another cast of these lines found in some papers of Cole- 
ridge, dated 1806, 1807, 18 10. 

" With never a whisper on the main 
Off shot the spectre ship : 



33^ ^Ott& [1797 

And stifled words and groans of pain 

,,. ,, , murmuring ,. 

Mix d on each ... ° lip. 

tremblmg '^ 

And we look'd round, and we look'd up, 
And fear at our hearts, as at a cup, 

The Life-blood seem'd to sip — 
The sky was dull, and dark the night, 
The helmsman's face by his lamp gleam' d bright, 

From the sails the dews did drip." 

222, 223. And every soul^ etc. Cf. Hamlet, Act iii. Sc. I. 
King. * How smart a lash that speech doth give my conscience ! ' 
Macbeth, Act ii. Sc. i : 

Macb. * How is 't with me, when every noise appals me } ' 

Part IV. 
224-227. I fear thee, etc. Cf. Macbeth, Act i. Sc. 3, 18-25: 
" I will drain him dry as hay," etc. 

" For the last two lines of this stanza I am indebted to Mr. 
Wordsworth." Note of S. T. C. — Siby/lifie Lea'ves. 

232-235. Alone, alone, etc. The terror of this scene is equal 
to that oi Macbeth, Act v. Sc. I, the Sleep-walking Scene ; and 
Hamlet, Act iii. Sc. B. 3, where the King is at prayer. 

244, 245. I looked to Hea'ven, etc. Cf. Hamlet, Act iii. Sc. 3: 

*' Pray can I not. 
Though inclination be as sharp as will : 
My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent." 

248-256. I closed my lids, etc. Cf. Tennyson, Palace of Art : 

" But in dark corners of her palace stood 
Uncertain shapes ! " etc. 

257, 258. An orphan s curse, ttc. Cf. .^schylos, Choephorae, 
Ant. i. : 

" Full clear a spectre came 
That made each single hair to stand on end," etc. 

259, 260. But oh ! more horrible, etc. Cf. Macbeth, Act iii. 
Sc. 4. 



^797] jl^otesf 337 

263-266. The mo'ving Moon, etc. For equally clear observa- 
tion of Nature, cf. Christabel, Part the First. Read the gloss here 
carefully for additional illustration of imaginative power. 

267, 268. Her beams bemocked, etc. Cf. Frost at Midnight. 

274—276. They moved, etc. Coleridge has the eye of a scien- 
tist here. Cf. Christabel, Part the Second : 

** A snake's small eye blinks dull and shy," etc. 

** In these monsters he seems to have particular interest, and to 
have consulted various zoological works ; for the note book of this 
date contains long paragraphs upon the alligators, boas, and croco- 
diles of antediluvian times." — Alois Brandl. 

279—287. Blue, glossy green, etc. "Coleridge's strange crea- 
tures of the sea are not the hideous worms which a vulgar dealer in 
the supernatural might have invented. Seen in a great calm by the 
light of the moon, these creatures of God are beautiful in the joy 
of their life." — E. Dowden. 

288—291. The self-same moment, etc. Here is the dramatic 
centre of the story, as in Shakespeare's five-act plays it is in the 
third act. 

Part V. 

305-308. I moved, etc. ** Certainly there are strange things 
in the other world, and so there are in all the steps to it ; and a 
little glimpse of Heaven, — a moment's conversing with an angel, 
— any ray of God, any communication from the Spirit of Comfort, 
which God gives to his servants in strange and unknown manners, 
are infinitely far from illusions. We shall understand them when 
we feel them, and when, in new and strange needs, we shall be re- 
freshed by them" (Note-book, p. 27). 

318-326. j4nd the coming ivind, etc. The minute realism of 
description here reveals Coleridge's sensitive apprehension of natural 
scenery. 

359, / heard the skylark sing. 

Cf. Wordsworth, To a Skylark ; Shelley, To a Skylark. 

The last stanza suggests the special revelation of nature which 
it was the mission of Wordsworth and Coleridge to give. Cf. 
Wordsworth, It 'was an April Morning, The Leech Gatherer, Lines 
on Early Spring. 



33^ jfiote0 [1797 

Coleridge often upbraids those poets who project themselves into 
nature. Cf. The Nightingale. 
402-405, The spirit, etc. 

" But ask now the beasts, and they shall teach thee ; 
And the fowls of the air, and they shall tell thee j 
Or speak to the earth, and it shall teach thee ; 
And the fishes of the sea shall declare unto thee j 
Who knoweth not in all these 
That the hand of the Lord hath wrought this." 

Job, First Cycle of Speeches. 

Part VI. 

446—451. Like one, that on a lonesome road, etc. This stanza 
introduces us into the realm of the supernatural much as does 
Shakespeare's Macbeth. Mr. Stopford Brooke says : *' I never 
met a sailor whose ship had been among the lonely places of the 
sea who did not know of these hauntings." 

467. Is this mine otvn countree ? 

Cf. Fears in Solitude. 

472-479. The harbor-hay, etc. The quiet of the harbor is the 
symbol of return to the life of love after the storms of sin. 

" How pleasantly, how reassuringly, the whole night-mare story 
is made to end among the clear, fresh sounds and lights of the bay 
where it began. ' ' — Walter Pater. 

490, etc. A mass all light, etc. The idea of working the ship 
by this means was suggested by Wordsworth. 

500-504. But soon I heard, etc. Mr. J. Dykes Campbell 
says that in a copy of the edition of 1798 Coleridge crossed out 
the stanza which followed this, and wrote in the margin the fol- 
lowing : 

" Then vanish'd all the lovely sights, 
The spirits of the air ; 
No souls of mortal men were they, 
But spirits bright and fair." 

510, 511. He singeth, etc. 

** He murmurs near the running brooks 
A music sweeter than their own." 

Wordsworth, Poefs Epitaph. 



1797] ipotesf 339 

514-518. T/iis Hermit, etc. Cf. CAristaM, P^itt U. 
535. /'zy'-^o^ ; ivy-bush or clump. 

*^ The wealthy miller's early face 
Like the moon in an ivy-tod. " 
Tennyson, The Miller' s Daughter, 1833. 

Part VII. 

560-569. I mo'ved my lips, etc. How marvellously, and as it 
were by a single stroke, does Coleridge create for us the physical 
effects of the mariner's long agony, when he makes the sight of 
him so startling and tragic. 

578-581. Forthivith this frame of mine ivas ivrenched. 

'* Remorse is as the heart in which it grows ; 
If that be gentle, it drops balmy dews 
Of true repentance ; but if proud and gloomy 
It is a poison-tree, that pierced to the inmost, 
Weeps only tears of poison." 

Remorse, Act i. Sc. I. 

584, 585. And, till my ghastly tale is told, etc. Cf. Words- 
worth : 

*' A timely utterance gave that thought relief — 
And I again am strong." 

601-609. 0, stueeter than the marriagefeast, etc. Cf. Ten- 
nyson's The T1U0 Voices, 549-624. 

614-618. He pray eth best, etc. Cf. Coicridge : 

** There is one Mind, one omnipresent Mind, 
Omnific. His most holy name is Love. 
Truth of subliming import ! with the which 
Who feeds and saturates his constant soul 
He from his small particular orbit flies 
With blest outstarting ! from himself he flies, 
Stands in the sun, and with no partial gaze 
Views all creation ; and he loves it all, 
And blesses it, and calls it very good ! 

Religious Musings, 



340 0Ott& [1797 

Cf. Wordsworth : 

'* The Being, that is in the clouds and air, 

That is in the green leaves among the groves, 
Maintains a deep and reverential care 

For the unoffending creatures whom he loves." 

Hart-Leap Well. 

Valentine Le Grice, one of Coleridge's Cambridge friends, ex- 
pressed in his commemoration speech the creed of the young poets. 
" The end of poetry is to delight, to ennoble, to elevate, and im- 
prove the heart. Let us therefore contemplate nature with the eye 
of Thomson, stimulate our energy by Gray, awaken our finer feel- 
ings by Bowles, lose ourselves in sympathy with Burns, and enlarge 
our higher sentiment with Cowper. " 

In the following noble passage from Cardinal Newman we have 
the same idea as that which Coleridge voices : 

" Can anything," says Newman, " be more marvellous or star- 
tling, unless we were used to it, than that we should have a race of 
beings about us whom we do but see, and as little know their state, 
or can describe their interests, or their destiny, as we can tell of 
the inhabitants of the sun and moon ? It is indeed a very over- 
powering thought, when we get to fix our minds on it, that we 
familiarly use, I may say, hold intercourse with creatures who are 
as much strangers to us, as mysterious, as if they were fabulous, 
unearthly beings." 

** We are sharers not only of animal but of vegetable life j 
sharers with the higher brute animals in common instincts and feel- 
ings and affections. ... I fancy that human beings may be more 
humane when they realize that, as their dependent associates live a 
life in which man has a share, so they have rights which man 
is bound to respect." — Prof. Asa Gray, Natural Science and Reli- 
gion. 

*' The spirit of Romance that came as the salvation of modern 
poetry found magical expression in The Ancient Mariner. Old 
age renews itself with memories of youth 5 and the inspiration of 
the new life of poetry was from the far-off fields and fountains of 
the neglected folk-lore of the North. In The Ancient Mariner 
are the two great elements of the folk-tale : love of the marvellous 
— the supernatural — and love of the lower animals. Wonder is 



1797] jl^otes; 341 

the essence of both, and both are of the essence of religion. True 
to the world's heart is the recognition of something rea/ above and 
beyond the actual in life ; equally true is the reverent awe with 
which primitive men regarded the migrations and strange instincts 
of birds and beasts. When man did animals a favor, knowledge 
of their language was revealed to him, and they saved him from 
the perils of the forest, the morass, and the flood. Love reads the 
secret of Nature. Man is not placed in a dead world, but in a uni- 
verse where living links bind order to order j where there are duties 
as well as rights ; and where, if duties are neglected, interests are 
injured." — E. Charlton Black. 

1797, 1800-1816. 

CHRISTABEL. 

First printed in a pamphlet with Kuhla Khan and The Pains of 

Sleep, 1 8 16. 

The more we read the poems of this eventful year the more we 
wonder how it was that Wordsworth and his gifted sister influenced 
Coleridge, and yet the fact is everywhere evident. The essential 
spirit of poetry has never been more clearly revealed t^ian in these 
poems, which conduct us to the heights of thz English Romantic 
Movements. There was hardly a suggestion of the ineffable 
charm, the spiritual vision and natural magic of these poems in any 
work of his before the meeting with the quiet, wholesome and 
homely children of the North country. They are of imagination 
all compact, and wither at the frosty breath of critical analysis. 

We are a bit surprised at the influence which came to him from 
Wordsworth, and when we ask those who know these poets best 
just what the influence was, they leave us still in wonder. Mr. 
Stopford Brooke says: '* The moment Coleridge, under Words- 
worth's influence, began to express himself only for the pleasure 
he had in his emotion, or to shape the beauty he saw for the love of 
it alone, he ceased to be the man of talent and rose into the man of 
genius. ... It was the influence of a more original, of a simpler 
and steadier swell in another, of one who had better principles of 
art rooted in him than Coleridge had found as yet, and of one who 
had already re-conceived and reopened the deep sources of poetry." 
Mr. Richard Garnett says : " Wordsworth assuredly did not teach 



342 ^otta [1797 

Coleridge out of a book, and Coleridge's regeneration can be 
ascribed to nothing else than the perception that his friend was 
leading where he could follow him. He came after Wordsworth 
as one bird might follow another through an open window — a bird 
of more gorgeous plumage certainly, though not of sweeter voice. 

Mr. J. Dykes Campbell says : ** It was a rich and fruitful time 
for aU three — seed-time at once and harvest ; and its happy influ- 
ences spread far beyond their own individual selves. The gulf- 
stream which rose in the Quantocks warmed and is still warming 
distant shores. Dorothy's quick sympathy, keen observation, and 
rapid suggestion were invaluable to both. . . . Nor was the influ- 
ence, in action and reaction, of the men on one another less po- 
tent. Coleridge was by far the more active, as well as the finer 
and more penetrating, and the immense receptiveness of Words- 
worth must have acted as a strong incentive to its exercise. And 
this is true, I believe, notwithstanding that there are more dis- 
tinct traces of Wordsworth's influence on Coleridge's poetry than 
of the converse." Mr. Alois Brandl says : "The two new friends 
were very unlike ; they did not rush into each other's arms like 
two ardent, raw youths, but they grasped each other by the hand 
with a feeling of profound mutual recognition. Coleridge was the 
ivy which at last found the oak on which it could lean and unfold 
its luxuriance." 

In 1 801 Coleridge wrote : '* If I die and the booksellers will 
give you anything for my life, be sure to say : ' Wordsworth de- 
scended on him like a TvwO creauT<$v from heaven, by showing to 
him what true poetry was, he made him know that he himself was 
no Poet.' " 

Of the influence of Coleridge on Wordsworth we have evidence 
throughout the Prelude, where the most touching tributes to his 
capacious soul, prompt sympathy, and quick intuition are to be 
found in every book. 

In the delightful associations of the Quantocks where they ** wan- 
toned in wild poesy," beauty came to Coleridge in the garb of 
truth, while to Wordsworth truth came in the attire of beauty. 
Coleridge became the poetic philosopher, Wordsworth the philo- 
sophic poet. 

The history of literature gives us no more interesting or sugges- 
tive picture than that of the fi-iendship of these two men. A study 



'797] Jl^Otefif 343 

of the means by which this love was fostered and sustained, and in 
consequence of which each attained heights from which is shed 
ever-enduring radiance, cannot fail to be rewarding. 

The Alfoxden "Journal of Dorothy reveals many sights and 
sounds which became the common property of both poets, and each 
would have subscribed to the sentiment, " She gave me eyes, she 
gave me ears," of Wordsworth's later poem. We find the fol- 
lowing characteristic touches in th& "J ournal : '* William called me 
into the garden to observe a singular appearance about the moon. 
A perfect rainbow, within the bow one star, only of colours more 
vivid. , . . Walked to Stowey with Coleridge, returned by wood- 
lands. . . . Walked alone to Stowey. Returned in the evening 
with Coleridge. Went to Stowey with Coleridge, heard the night- 
ingale." . . . Lines 49-54 are given as follows in the yoz^rwa/ ; 
*' Only one leaf upon the top of the tree, the sole remaining leaf 
danced round like a rag blown by the wind." Again, lines 16-20 
appear as follows : " When we left home the moon was immensely 
large, the sky scattered over with clouds. These soon closed in, 
contracting the dimensions of the moon without concealing her." 
The baron's mastiff may be in this sketch : " The manufacturer's 
dog makes a strange, uncouth howl, which it continues many 
minutes, after there is no noise near it but that of the brook. It 
hov/ls at the murmur of the village stream. We walked in 
the woods into the Coombe to fetch some eggs. The whole 
appearance of the woods was enchanting, and each tree, taken 
singly, was beautiful. ' ' For a revelation of what William was doing 
we must read the Lyrical Ballads, especially the poem which is re- 
lated to his mind and art as Chrhtabel is to that of Coleridge — 
Lines Composed a Feiv Miles abo-ve Tintern Abbey. 

While we are considering the mutual influence of these three 
friends we must not forget that other which came from the gen.le 
and frolicsome Lamb. This was more immediate and direct upon 
Coleridge than upon the Wordsworths, but it was not more sym- 
pathetic or helpful. The world can never know the full signifi- 
cance of this joyous and radiant comradeship. In the cheerful 
talk of the patient toUer at the India House, in the wizard fascina- 
tion of the dreamer of dreams, and the healing calm of the child 
of Nature, we feel something of mighty impulse which helped life 
onward in its noblest aim. 



344 iliote0 [1797 

Mr. Gillman says Coleridge told him that Christabel was 
founded on the notion that the " virtuous of this world save the 
wicked." 

We know that the poets pre-eminently dear to Wordsworth, 
Lamb and Coleridge were the great masters of human passion, in- 
tellectual vigor, penetrative imagination, and bewitching melody, 
Spenser, Shakespeare, and Milton. Kubla Khan^ The Ancient 
Mariner^ and Christabel therefore naturally enough breathe the 
finest atmosphere of these poets while having a life unborrowed 
and their own. The Faerie ^eene, Macbeth, A Midsummer 
Night's Dream, and Comus, all contribute something of the 
natural and supernatural to the divine philosophy of these inim- 
itable creations. Imaginative conception and technical expression 
are in perfect harmony. 

In Kubla Khan the natural prevails, in The Ancient Mariner 
natural and supernatural penetrate through the medium of the hu- 
man, while in Christabel the supernatural element is supreme : — 

' * It springs as a level of bowery lawn. 

And the mountain draws it from Heaven above. 
And it sings a song of undying love." 

The spirit of the old romantic ballads is here refined and made 
subtle by delicate modern reflection. 

Lowell, in speaking of Coleridge's best work, says : *' It seems 
pure, visual ecstacy, the very beatitude of tireless simplicity, and is 
the most finished product of art. I know nothing so perfect of its 
kind since Dante." 

William Watson says: '* The First Part of Christabel is not less 
wonderful than The Ancient Mariner in its power of producing an 
equally full and rich effect by infinitely more frugal means." 

Only the Part First of the poem was written at Stowey, 1797, 8 
— the others were written at the Lakes in 1800. Lamb dreaded 
a continuation, lest the heavy foot of fact should tread upon the 
rustling train of romance. This heavy foot is what levels down the 
parts written later. 

Mr. A. C. Swinburne, in an essay which every student of 
Coleridge should have by heart, has said of the poems of this 
period : " When it has been said that such melodies were never 
heard, such dreams never dreamed, and such speech never spoken, 



1797] jl^otesf 345 

the chief thing remains unsaid and unspeakable. There is a charm 
upon these poems which can only be felt in silent submission of 
wonder. Were we compelled to the choice I for one would rather 
preserve Kubla Khan and Christabel than any other of Coleridge's 
poems. . . . The former is the most wonderful of the poems, 
while the loveliest is assuredly Christabel.'''' 

1. 238. Leigh Hunt, in ** What is Poetry," cites this line as 
illustrating that type of imagination * which by a single expression, 
apparently of the vaguest kind, not only meets but surpasses in effect 
the extremest force of most particular description.' He says : 
*' A perfect verse surely, both for feeling and music. The very 
smoothness and gentleness of the lines is in the series of the letter 
I's." As to the music of C/6r/i?<2^e/, he says : " Coleridge restored 
the octo-syllabic measure to the beautiful freedom of which it was 
capable. He varied it with alternate rhymes and stanzas, with rests 
and omissions analogous to those in music." 

The history of the various attempts to complete the poem, the 
alterations and explanations covering a period of nearly twenty years, 
must be read in Mr. J. Dykes Campbell's edition of the poet's 
works, 1893. 

Scott heard Christabel recited by John Stoddart at Lasswade in 
1 80 1, and was so fascinated by it that he reproduced its melody as 
best he could in the Lay of the Last Minstrel, 1805. In his In- 
troduction to the edition of 1830 he says: " Mr. Stoddart was 
able to repeat to me, among others, the striking fragment called 
Christabel^ by Mr. Coleridge, which, from the singularly irregular 
structure of the stanzas and the liberty which it allowed the au- 
thor, to adapt the sound to the sense, geemed exactly suited to such 
an extravaganza as I meditated . . . and it is to Mr. Coleridge 
that I am bound to make the acknowledgment due from the pupil 
to his master." 

When the Lay was published Southey wrote : *' The beginning 
of the story is too like Coleridge's Christabel, which he (Scott) had 
seen j the very line ' Jesu Maria, shield her well,' is caught from 
it." 

It was through the influence of Byron that Murray published the 
poem in 1816. 

Part II., 11. 77-95. Alas ! etc. 

Lamb told the Gillmans : ♦' I was very angry with Coleridge 



346 0ott& [1798 

when first I heard that he had written a second canto, and that he 
intended to finish it ; but when I read the beautiful apostroph of the 
two friends it calmed me." 

1798-1825. 

ENCINCTURED WITH A TWINE OF LEAVES. 

( From T^e fVanderings of Cain. ) 

These verses first published in a note to the '* Conclusion " of 

Aids to Reflection^ 1825. 

The quaint prose poem The Wanderings of Cain has a history 
not unlike that of The Ancient Mariner^ in that it was intended to 
be a joint production of Coleridge and Wordsworth, and also in that 
it is a study of the great forces of retributive justice. It was to be in 
three cantos : Wordsworth was to write the first, and Coleridge the 
second, while the third was to be the work of that one who 
completed his canto first. The result shows how ludicrous the 
plan was ; Coleridge's muse could fly to such heights while that of 
Wordsworth was preparing to walk. He says (1828) : *'Me- 
thinks I see his (Wordsworth's) grand and noble countenance as 
at the moment when having despatched my own portion of the 
task at full finger-speed, I hastened to him with my manuscript, — 
that look of humorous despondency fixed on his almost blank sheet 
of paper, and then its silent mock-piteous admission of failure 
struggling with the sense of the exceeding ridiculousness of the whole 
scheme — which broke up in a laugh." 

Later Coleridge undertook to compose the whole anew in verse, 
and made, as he says, *' some progress when adverse gales drove my 
bark ofi^the ' Fortunate Isles ' of the muses. And then other and 
more momentous interests prompted a different voyage, to firmer 
anchorage and a securer port. I have in vain tried to recover the 
lines from the palimsest tablet of my memory ; and I can only offer 
the introductory stanza which had been committed to writing for 
the purpose of procuring a friend's judgment on the metre as a 
specimen." 

Thus we have another exquisite "fragment," in which is the 
rare essence of pure poetry. 

At his best Coleridge had that supreme gift which M. Edmond 



1798] jl^otesf 347 

Scherer calls '* the pinion-stroke which sweeps Ganymede into 
the Empyrean and casts him panting at Jupiter's feet." 

Mr. A. C. Swinburne says : " It is natural that there should be 
nothing like these poems discoverable in any human work ; natu- 
ral that his poetry at its highest should be, as it is, beyond all praise 
and all words of men. He who could define it could unweave a 
rainbow. ' ' 

1798-1798. 

FRANCE : AN ODE. 
First printed in the Morning Post, April 16, 1798. 

While the two poets were murmuring near the running brooks 
a music sweeter than their own, somewhat of a sensation was 
caused in the quiet community of Stowey by the advent there of 
a young Republican by the name of Thelwall, with whom Cole- 
ridge had some correspondence. When he arrived Coleridge was 
with the Wordsworths ; and he writes to his wife: *' So after 
sleeping at Coleridge's cot, Sara and I went to Alfoxden in time 
enough to call Samuel and Wordsworth up to breakfast." 

Coleridge says of Thelwall {Table Talk, July, 1830): <* We 
were once sitting in a beautiful recess in the Quantocks, when I 
said to him, ' Citizen John, this is a fine place to talk treason in !' 
* Nay, Citizen Samuel,' he replied, ' it is rather a place to make a 
man forget that there is any necessity for treason.' " 

Coleridge's lectures and preaching and Wordsworth's secluded 
life with his sister had, even before the arrival of ' Citizen ' Thel- 
wall, aroused suspicions of the good people. They thought Words- 
worth a smuggler, a conjurer, and as he was " so silent and dark," 
a French Jacobin. Poole was blamed for harboring such suspects 
(it was through Poole that Wordsworth secured Alfoxden), and 
now a government spy was sent down to watch their movements. 
The Anti-Jacobin published the following : — 

' ' Thelwall and ye that lecture as ye go, 
And for your pains get pelted, 

Praise Lepaux ! 1 
And ye five other wandering bards that move 
In sweet accord of harmony and love, 

1 A French charlatan. 



348 0Ott^ [1798 

C — dge, and S-th-y, L — d and L — b, and Co., 
Tune all your mystic harps to praise 

Lepaux." 

Coleridge, writing to Cottle of the experience of Wordsworth, 
says : " Whether we shall be able to procure him a house and furni- 
ture near Stowey we know not, and yet we must 5 for the hills, and 
the woods, and the streams, and the sea, and the shores, would break 
forth into reproaches against us, if we did not strain every nerve to 
keep their poet among them." 

The first product of the new year (1798) was this magnificent 
ode which he called Recantation, revealing the fact that Coleridge 
had now clearly seen the horrid delusion, the vile mockery of the 
whole affair. Here are no entrancing notes of liquid melody, but 
the strong, deep, tumultuous tones of the organ, — a wail of de- 
spair at the perfidy of those who, after singing paeans to Freedom, 
could enslave a sister Republic. Cf. Wordsworth's sonnet, *' I 
grievedfor Buonaparte " (1802), and "Anotheryear, another deadly 
blow," &c. (1806), and Shelley's Ode to Liberty. Cf. S. A. 
Brooke's edition of Wordsworth's Poems of Independence and Lib- 
erty. 

While Coleridge was in Germany, 1798-99, he found satisfac- 
tion in the fact that the aged Klopstock had written odes on the 
French Revolution, and had received presents from France, but 
when success turned to tyranny he wrote palinodia and returned 
the presents. Cf. Prelude XI. 320-369, for a revelation of 
Wordsworth's feelings at being disillusioned. 

In Coleridge's early odes he had been under the influence of 
Gray, but here he is on the heights to which he has climbed by 
his own efforts, and is as supreme now in this type of poetry as in 
that which we have just passed. He has perfect command of 
the keys of the most complex musical instrument, and the result is 
the complete union of thought and feeling in sphere-born har- 
monies, verse and voice. 

<* He now spoke with contempt of Gray," says Hazlitt, ** and 
intolerance of Pope. He observed that the * ears of these couplet- 
writers might be charged with having short memories, that could 
not retain the harmony of whole passages.' " 

11. 53, 54. These lines were the occasion of a very unwarranted 



1798] jl^otes? 349 

charge of plagiarism preferred by De Quincey. He claimed that 
Coleridge took them from Samson Agonistes, 136-139, 

** When insupportably his foot advanced," &c., 

but that he refused to acknowledge the obligation. Cf. De Quin- 
cey. The Lake Poets, p. 44. 

Henry Nelson Coleridge answered this charge of what De 
(^uincey called * Coleridge's infirmity ' in the Preface to Table 
Talk. 

1798-1798. 

FROST AT MIDNIGHT. 

First printed in a pamphlet with France : An Ode^ in 1798. 

With the disappointment revealed in the Ode to France came a 
distinct weakening in Coleridge's interest in the larger social and 
political life of his time. In place of these human interests came 
the quieter aspects of nature and his own soul. The picture which 
we have in this poem reveals the pensive and paternal tenderness 
of that great soul whose food was Human Love. It is full of 
what Professor Dowden calls * his affluent and sweet humanity. ' 
Mrs. Sandford says his pensive Sara " betrayed to sympathizing 
friends how trying it was when Samuel ivould walk up and down 
composing poetry instead of coming to bed at proper hours. I have 
sometimes thought Ophelia might have been like Mrs. Coleridge 
if she and Hamlet had lived to be married. In her girlish grace 
and softness she belonged to the very type of woman that a Hamlet 
in early youth most easily falls in love with, for she personifies 
womanhood to him." 

Coleridge once said : " Every one wishes a Desdemona or Ophe- 
lia for a wife — creatures who, though they may not always under- 
stand you, do always feel you, and feel with you." 

11. 44 et seq. These lines were prophetic, as at this time he had 
no prospect of ever living in the Lake country. The version of 
1798 had the following six lines in conclusion : 

" Like thee, my babe ! which ere to-morrow's warmth 
Have capp'd their sharp, keen points with pendulous drops, 
Will catch thine eye, and with their novelty 
Suspend thy little soul ; then make thee shout. 
And stretch and flutter from thy mother's arms. 
As thou would'st fly for very eagerness." 



350 iPotefif [1798 

The story of Hartley's joyous life in the peaceful and solemn 
grandeur of rivers, lakes, and hills, should be read in Canon 
Rawnsley's Literary Associations of the English Lakes. Cf. Hartley 
Coleridge, Essays and Poems. 

1798-1798. 
FEARS IN SOLITUDE. 

First printed in pamphlet with France : An Ode, and Frost at 

Midnight, 1798. 

Written in April, 1798, during the Alarm of the Invasion. — 
The scene the hill near Stowey. — S. T. C. 

There is no poem of Coleridge which so clearly reveals the in- 
fluence of Wordsworth's splendid patriotic principles based on 
love of Nature and Man in England as does this. The severest 
criticisms on the policy of their country at times was entirely con- 
sistent with this noble patriotism. ** Such patriotism," said Pro- 
fessor Dowden, ' ' can only be uprooted together with the very 
foundations of our moral being." 

Something of the natural atmosphere of this poem is found in 
Dorothy's Journal : 

' ' Went to the hill-top. Sat a considerable time overlooking 
the country toward the Sea. The air blew pleasantly round us. 
The Welsh hills capped by a huge range of tumultuous white clouds. 
The sea spotted with white, of a bluish grey in general, and streaked 
with darker lines. The near shores clear ; scattered farm houses, 
half concealed by green, mossy orchards, fresh straw lying at the 
doors ; haystacks in the fields. Brown fallows, the springing 
wheat, like a shade of green over the brown earth ; and the 
choice meadow plots, full of sheep and lambs, of a soft and 
vivid green} a few wreaths of blue smoke spreading along the 
ground; the oaks and beeches in the hedges retaining their green 
leaves ; the distant prospect on the land side, islanded with sun- 
shine ; the sea, like a basin fuU to the margin. ' ' 

There is something distinctly Wordsworthian in the contrast be- 
tween the poet's agitated feelings and the calm of the heathy dell. 

11. 222-229. -^" allusion to the home of his friend Poole, and 
his own Stowey cottage. Coleridge's poems are as good a guide 
to this district as are Wordsworth's to that of the Lakes. 



1798] jl^otesf 351 

1798-1798. 

THE NIGHTINGALE : A CONVERSATION POEM. 
First printed in Lyrical Ballads, 1798. 

Young Hazlitt, who came to know Coleridge the preacher at 
this time, has given us a characteristic sketch in My First Ac- 
quaintance ivith the Poets. Coleridge went to preach at Shrews- 
bury, ten miles from even Hazlitt's home. Hazlitt walked the 
ten miles through mud to hear this celebrated person preach. 
He says : "When I got there the organ was playing the looth 
Psalm, and when it was done, Mr. Coleridge rose and gave out his 
text, ' And He went up into the mountain, to pray. Himself 
alone. ' As he gave out this text his voice ' rose like a stream 
of rich distilled perfumes,' and when he came to the last two 
words, which he pronounced loud, deep, and distinct, it seemed 
to me, who was then young, as if the sounds had echoed from 
the bottom of the human heart, and as if that prayer might have 
floated in solemn silence through the universe." 

Coleridge visited Hazlitt on the Tuesday following. It was 
while there that he received the offer from Josiah Wedgewood 
of ;^I50 a year if he would abandon preaching and give him- 
self up to the study of poetry and philosophy. Hazlitt says : 
" He was henceforth to inhabit the Hill of Parnassus, to be a 
shepherd on the Delectable Mountain. Alas ! I knew not the 
way thither." In accepting this splendid gift Coleridge wrote of 
his success as a preacher at Shrewsbury, and added, "but one 
shrewd fellow remarked that he would rather hear me talk than 
preach.'" Coleridge once asked Lamb if he had ever heard him 
preach, and Lamb replied, " I 've never heard you do anything 
else." 

In this last poem of the Stowey period, so radiant with the love 
and hope of the three friends, there is an exquisitely tender pathos. 
The Lyrical Ballads were rapidly taking shape. Wordsworth, 
Dorothy and Coleridge had decided to visit Germany to study 
the language, and the thought of breaking up the Elysian re- 
pose among the Quantocks throws the poet into one of his pen- 
sive moods, in which the affections gently lead him on. Here 
he returns, "to his love and his nest," and finds joy in the 



352 jiiotes; [1798 

thoughts that spring from the simple domestic affections, from 
the delightful associations with man and nature in the sylvan re- 
treats of the land he loved. 

Wordsworth thus alludes to this period. Prelude^ Book i. 

" That summer, under whose indulgent skies 
Upon smooth Quantock's airy ridge we roved 
Uncheck'd, or loitered 'mid her sylvan combs, 
Thou in bewitching words, with happy heart. 
Didst chaunt the vision of that Ancient Man, 
The bright-eyed Mariner, and rueful woes 
Didst utter of the Lady Christabel j 
And I, associate with such labor, steeped 
In soft forgetfulness the livelong hours. 
Murmuring of him who, joyous hap, was found, 
After the perils of his moonlight ride, 
Near the loud waterfall j or her who sate 
In misery near the miserable Thorn." 

1. 13. a. II Penseroso, 1. 61. In vindication of the expression in 
the following lines, Coleridge says that with Milton the speaker is 
a melancholy man, and the expression has a dramatic propriety. 
Wordsworth said these lines of Coleridge would rectify the false 
notions which had prevailed with regard to the nightingale. 

1. 40. "My Friend and My Friend's Sister! " was the early 
form of this line. Of course the allusion is to Wordsworth and 
Dorothy. 

The Wordsworths left Alfoxden in midsummer, and after stay- 
ing a time with Coleridge, visited the Wye and returned to Bristol, 
where they were attending to the publication oi the. Lyrical Ballads. 
In May Coleridge's second son was born and named ' Berkeley,' 
in honor of the philosopher. Lamb had been estranged by some 
injudicious remarks of Lloyd, and on hearing a remark of Coleridge 
relating to the estrangement, *' Poor Lamb, if he wants any knoiv- 
ledge, he may apply to me," in irony and anger sent him, *' Theses 
quadam Theologica to be defended or oppugned (or both), as 
Lamb said at Leipsic or Gottingen." Among them were: 
'* Whether God or lying angel better than a true man ? Whether 
the higher order of Seraphim illuminati ever sneer ? " 

The Lyrical Ballads were published by Cottle in September 



1799 



] ^om 353 



anonymously. The first six poems were by Coleridge, the remain- 
der by Wordsworth. The following is an exact reprint of the 
table of contents : 

CONTENTS. 

Page 
The Rime of the Ancyent Marinere ------- i 

The Foster-Mother's Tale ---------- 53 

Lines left upon a Seat in a Yew-tree which stands near the 

Lake of Esthwaite ----------- ^^ 

The Nightingale j a Conversational Poem ----- 63 

The Female Vagrant ---.------- 69 

Goody Blake and Harry Gill --- 85 

Lines written at a small distance from my House, and sent 

by my little Boy to the Person to whom they are addressed 95 
Simon Lee, the old Huntsman --------- 98 

Anecdote for Fathers -----------105 

We are seven -------------no 

Lines written in early spring ---------n^ 

The Thorn ----- 117 

The last of the Flock --I33 

The Dungeon ------------- 139 

The Mad Mother ----- --141 

The Idiot Boy ------------- 149 

Lines written near Richmond, upon the Thames, at Even- 
ing ------------- ---180 

Expostulation and Reply ----------183 

The Tables turned j an Evening Scene on the same subject 186 
Old Man travelling ------------189 

The Complaint of a forsaken Indian Woman - - - - 1^3 

The Convict- -------------177 

Lines written a few miles above Tintern Abbey - - - - 20 1 

1799?-?. 
WESTPHALIAN SONG. 
Before the reviewers had brought their guns to bear upon the 
frail craft of the Lyrical Ballads, the two poets and Dorothy, hav- 
ing left Mrs. Coleridge and the children with Poole, departed for 
Germany, where they soon received the cheerful news from Sara 



354 jl^oceflf 



.1799 



that *' the Lyrical Ballads are not liked at all by any." And yet 
through the quiet revolution in poetic taste which this little vol- 
ume wrought, the Bastile of the old poetic tyranny was destined to 
fall to the ground. 

" So stupendous was the importance of the verse written on the 
guantocks in 1797 and 1798," says Edmund Gosse, "that if 
Wordsworth and Coleridge had died at the close of the latter 
year, we should, indeed, have lost a great deal of valuable poetry, 
especially of Wordsworth's ; but the direction taken by literature 
would scarcely have been modified in the slightest degree. The 
association of these intensely brilliant and inflammatory minds at 
what we call the psychological moment, produced full-blown and 
perfect the exquisite new flower of romantic poetry. ' ' 

At Hamburg they met the aged Klopstock. Coleridge, in one of 
his letters, writes of his discussions on poetry with the author, of 
Messiah, and alluding to the fact that a German preacher had 
called Klopstock a German Milton, says : *' I could not help mut- 
tering to myself — ' a very German Milton indeed ! ! ! ' " 

Soon Coleridge left the Wordsworths for Ratzeburg, where he 
remained during the winter, while they went to the old impe- 
rial town of Goslar, where, though cold and homesick, Words- 
worth wrote his inimitable poems on English girlhood. 

Wordsworth sent these poems to Coleridge, who, while think- 
ing of the future and hoping that their homes would be in the same 
neighborhood, wrote : " Whenever I spring forward into the fu- 
ture with noble affections, I always alight by your side." 

In February Coleridge entered Gottingen, where he studied 
chiefly German language and literature. As a result, he tried his 
hand at translating German poetry, and even Old Gothic, of which 
this song is a good illustration. His studies in metaphysics, too, be- 
gan to stifle the bard in him, but his reading of Lessing stimulated 
his critical instinct, especially in the interpretation of Shakespeare. 

In order to know something of the life of the peasants in Ger- 
many, Coleridge visited the country, frequented the beer-houses, 
joined in their festivals, danced and sang with them. Mr. Alois 
Brandl says : ** He lived for days upon potatoes and pancakes, and 
slept at night upon straw in the village inns, which had nothing 
better." As a result of this life we have some of the popular 
songs reproduce-d for us. This one he learned from the lips of a 
peasant. 



1799. 



il^otesf 355 



1799-1817. 

THE VISIT OF THE GODS. 
First printed in Sibylline Leaves , 181 7. 

This little poem is an imitation of Schiller's Dithyrambe. 
Nimmer, das glaubt mir 
Erscheinen die Gotter 
Nimmer allein, 

Kaum dasz ich Bucchus der Lustigen habe, 
Kommt auch schon Amor, der lachelnde Knabe. 
Phobus, der Herrliche, findel sich ein ! 
Sie nahen, sie kommen, — 
Wie Himmlischen alle, 
Mit Gottern erfiillt sich 
Die irdische Halle; 

1799-1799. 
NAMES. 
First printed in Morning Post, August 17, 1799. 

This is a translation of Lessing's Die Namen. It has been set 
as a four-part song by F. Champneys (Neville, c. 1884.") — 
J. D. Campbell. 

1799 ?-i 831. 

WATER BALLAD. 
First printed in the Athenaum, October 9, 183 1. 

This little poem first appeared in the Athenaum, October 9, 
1 83 1. There is no information in regard to it. I put it here be- 
cause there is a possibility that it is a translation from the German. 

1799-1799. 
LINES WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM AT ELBINGERODE IN THE 

HARTZ FOREST. 
First printed in the Morning Post, September 17, 1799. 

While Coleridge was in Gottingen he was visited by some young 
Englishmen, and they, with students, made an excursion to the 



356 jPOte0 [»799 

Hartz Mountains. While at an inn he wrote (May 17) these 
verses in the album or Stamm-Buch : 

* When I have gazed 

From some high eminence on goodly vales, 
And cots and villages embowered below, 
The thought would rise that all to me was strange 
Amid the scenes so fair, nor one small spot 
Where my tired mind might rest and call it home.' 

Southey's Hymn to the Penates. 

* ' Came to Elbingerode from Great Brocken, the highest mountain 
in all North Germany, and the seat of innumerable superstitions. 
On the first of May all the witches dance here at midnight. 

Gillman's Life of Coleridge. 

1799-1800. 
SOMETHING CHILDISH, BUT VERY NATURAL. 

First printed in Ann. Anthology, 1800. 

This poem was sent to Mrs. Coleridge in a letter April 23,1 799, 
from Gottingen, It is a translation of the German popular song, 
Wenn ich ein V'dglein ivar, in Des Knaben Wunderborn. 

1799-1802. 
THE DAY DREAM. 

First printed in Morning Post, October 19, 1802. Next, in The 
Poems, 1852, with the following editorial note : 
*' This little poem first appeared in the Morning Post, in 1802, 
but was doubtless composed in Germany. It seems to have been 
forgotten by its author, for this was the only occasion on which it 
saw the light through him. The editors think that it will plead 
against paternal neglect in the mind of most readers." 

Little Berkeley died in February, and on receiving the news Cole- 
ridge is prostrated with grief. Writing to Poole he quotes the lines 
which Wordsworth had sent him from Goslar : "A slumber did 
my spirit seal," and thinks they may have been suggested to 
Wordsworth by the thought of Dorothy's death. It is possible 
that A Day Dream may have been in some way related to his feel- 



1799] iliotesf 357 

ings at this time, for he wrote of Hartley, ** Dear lamb, I hope he 
won't be dead before I get home." 



1799-1799. 
LOVE. 

First printed in the Morning Post, December 21, 1799, under the 
title, " Introduction to the Tale of the Dark Ladie." 
The Wordsworths had returned to England in the spring of 1 799, 
and had gone to live with the Hutchinsons at Sockburn (cf. Pre- 
lude Book I. ) ; Coleridge left Gottingen in June and arrived at 
Stowey about the middle of July. Southey and his wife visited 
them here for two or three weeks. After this Coleridge visited 
the Wordsworths at Sockburn. 

Mr. Ernest Coleridge believes this poem was written at Sockburn 
during Coleridge's visit. 

It may be said that here closes the second period of his work. 
And it is not a little significant that it coincided with the setting 
out of the two poets upon new experiences iK. life and new lines of 
poetic activity, which in the one case was to be characterized by 
storm and stress, and in the other by dignity, serenity and peace — 

' * An eye made quiet by the power 
Of harmony, and the deep power of joy," 

whence came the vision into the life of things. 

This poem, so full of the felicity and beauty of melody, the 
warm poetic joy in human feeling, set in the rich framework of 
Nature, might be considered as symbolizing Coleridge's life with 
poetry during the last three years, as it retains all the glow and 
passion of poetic youth, 

*' docile, childlike, full of Life and Love." 

There is here just a hint of what must come when his life will be 
revealed in 

** Songs that make us grieve," 

and we can imagine him repeating to himself the sad lines of 
Shakespeare : 

** My grief lies onward, and my joy behind. ' ' 



358 iliotefif [1799 

11. 9, 10. "We entered the wood through a beautiful mossy 
path ; the moon above us blending with the evening lights, and 
every now and then a nightingale would invite the others to sing." 
— Letters to his fVife, May I J, ^799t deicribing his ascent of 
the B roc ken (Campbell). 

1799-1834. 
THE BALLAD OF THE DARK LADIE. 
First printed in Poems, 1834. 

As has been said, the previous poem Lo-ve was an introduction 
to this. " In a manuscript list (undated) of his poems drawn up 
by Coleridge, appear these three together : Lcve, 96 lines (exactly 
the number printed). The Black Ladie, 190 lines. The Black 
Ladi'e doubtless, was The Dark Ladie, so that the asterisks stand 
for about two thirds of the whole " ( Campbell). 

1799-1799. 
A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 
First printed in Morning Post, Dec. 28, 1799. 

On the conclusion of the visit to Sockburn, Cottle, Coleridge, 
and Wordsworth started on a tour of the Lake Country. Cottle 
left the party at Greta Bridge, and they were joined by Words- 
worth's brother John. They were especially delighted with Gras- 
mere, and as Wordsworth was ready to begin housekeeping with 
his sister, he rented Dove Cottage at Pavement End and took up 
his abode there in December. Cf. On Nature''s In-vitation do 
I Come, and Bleak Season ivas it. Turbulent and Wild. Coleridge, 
having received an offer to write political articles for the Morning 
Post, went immediately to London after returning to Sockburn. 
Southey was at this time engaged on the second volume of his 
Annual Anthology, and Coleridge got together fourteen poems for 
it. Among the number was A Christmas Carol. 

While in Gottingen he had translated a passage in Ottfried's 
Gospel. Mr. Campbell thinks this little poem was inspired by 
Ottfried. 



i8oo] ji^otesf 359 

1 800-1 800. 
thekla's song from the piccolomini. 

Act II., Sc. 4. First printed in 1800. 

Mrs. Coleridge and Hartley had joined Coleridge in London in 
December at 21 Buckingham Street, Strand. He made an engage- 
ment to translate Schiller's fVallenstein, and in February, 1800, 
he gave up his position on the Morning Post. Mrs. Coleridge and 
Hartley returned to Stowey, while he went to the Lambs at 
Pentonville. Lamb writes of this visit : *' I am living in a con- 
tinuous feast, Coleridge has been with me now for nigh three 
weeks. ' ' 

While his German studies had produced but little poetry, ihey 
stimulated his love of Schiller, and now he shows what he had 
learned of the language by attempting the difficult task of transla- 
tion. At the very time Schiller's MSS. were in London and sup- 
posed to be in other hands for translation, they came into the 
possession of the Longmans, and Schiller was surprised to find 
Coleridge's translation, so he wrote asking where he got the MSS. 
Many have maintained that Coleridge's Wallemtein is superior to 
Schiller's. Coleridge says : *' I found it not in my power to 
translate this song with literal fidelity, preserving at the same time 
the Alcaic Movement." 

1800-1802. 
THE KEEPSAKE. 
First printed in the Morning Post, Sept. 17, 1802. 

In April he is with the Wordsworths at Dove Cottage for a visit. 

It is more than probable that this little poem was written at 
Grasmere during this visit, as Emmeline was Wordsworth's poetical 
name for his sister Dorothy, and the natural setting of the poem is 
most assuredly that of the Grasmere gardens and walks. 

1. 10. I believe Wordsworth makes no mention of this flower 
in his poetry. 

1800-1831. 
A STRANGER MINSTREL. 
First printed in the Memoirs of the late Mrs. Robinson, written by 
herself, with some posthumous poems, 1 8 3 1 . 



360 ^ottiS [1800 

In June, Coleridge, his wife, and little Hartley came to Dove 
Cottage on their way to Keswick. Dorothy wrote in the Journal, 
June 22, 1800 : "On Sunday, Mr. and Mrs. Coleridge and Hart- 
ley came. The day was very warm. We sailed to the foot of 
Loughrigg. They staid with us three weeks, and till the Thursday 
following, from 1st till 23rd of July." Greta Hall was only part 
built at this time. It was the property of a very interesting ' yeo- 
man of the old school,' whose character has been celebrated by 
Wordsworth in the *' Waggoner." " William Jackson, Carrier, 
Whitehaven, to Kendal and Lancaster," was the sign on his 
waggon. * Him o' Rydal ' has written thus, for he, 

*' Through all the changes of the year. 
Had seen ' it ' through the mountains go, 
In pomp of mist or pomp of snow, 
Majestically huge and slow." 

He occupied a part of the House, and was glad to have a phi- 
losopher and poet occupy the rest as soon as finished, for, as 
Coleridge afterward wrote of him, '* He was from a boy a lover of 
learning." 

Mr. Richard Garnett thinks that while Coleridge's decision to 
live in the Lakes was made in order to be near Wordsworth, 
yet it was "supplemented, perhaps, by another, his admiration for 
Dorothy Wordsworth, who would in all probability have become 
his wife, but for the unfortunate precipitation, under strong pressure 
from well-meaning and much-mistaken Southey, which had al- 
ready made him the husband of an excellent woman entirely unsuited 
to him." 

He was sorry to leave his friend Poole, but, as Mrs. Sandford 
says : ' * Coleridge would never been contented to live in the 
west of England whilst Wordsworth was living in the north.'* 
His delight with his new environment was unbounded. 

He writes : " Here I am with Skiddaw at my back ; on my 
right hand the Bassenthwait Water, with its majestic case of 
mountains — all of simplest outline. . . . My God ! What a 
scene ! Right before me is a great Camp of mountains, each in 
shape resembling a Giant's tent. . . . Hartley is all health and 
ecstacy. . . . My wife will not let me stay — I must go and 
unpack a trunk for her. ' ' In September his third son was born, 



i8oo] ^Otta 361 

and he named him Derwent, for the lake near. Dorothy's Gras- 
mere journal is full of revelations of these days. She says : *' At 
1 1 Coleridge came when I was walking in the still clear moonshine 
in the garden. He came over Helvellyn. We sate and chatted 
till half past three . , . Coleridge reading a part of Christabel.'''' 
Sept. I. " After dinner Coleridge discovered a rock seat in the 
orchard." Oct. 4. *' Coleridge came in while we were at dinner, 
very wet. We talked till twelve o'clock. He had sat all the 
night before writing essays for the newspaper." Oct. 11. *' Wm 
composed without much success at the Sheepfold ( Michael) . Cole- 
ridge came in to dinner. . . . Wm read Ruth^ etc., after supper. 
Coleridge read Christabel (Part II.)." 

The subject of this poem, The Stranger Minstrel^ was a Mrs. 
Robinson, whom Coleridge had met in London. She was a friend 
of the Godwins, had been unhappily married, and, assisted by 
Garrick, had gone upon the stage. She became known as 
* Perdita,' because of a successful interpretation of that character. 
She wrote for the Morning Post. Coleridge naturally sympathized 
with her struggle, and she returned the feeling with admiration. 
They had an active correspondence in verse. She alluded to Cole- 
ridge thus : 

*'Thee, O favored child of minstrelsy, sublimely wild," 

and again, alluding to Kubla Khan : 

" Spirit divine ! with thee will I wander. 
I '11 mark thy sunny dome, and view 
Thy caves of ice, thy fields of dew." 

This led her to visit the Lakes, with which she at once became 
fascinated. Soon after leaving in November, 1800, she wrote 
Coleridge on her deathbed, revealing her homesickness for a glimpse 
of Skiddaw. Mr. Campbell thinks this poem was a response to the 
letter. She died a few weeks later. When her poems were pub- 
lished Coleridge wrote another plaint describing what he felt at her 
loss. Cf. The Mad Monk. 

Lines 9-14 show a marked resemblance to Wordsworth's Ode 
On Intimations of hnmortality, 1-7. 



362 0Ott& [1800 

1800 ?-i893. 

THE SNOW DROP. 
First printed in J. D. Campbell's edition of the poet's works, 

1893. 

Mr. Campbell gives the following note to this fragment, which 
he found in MS. : — 

** In quality it is very unequal, but there are some lines which no 
one but Coleridge could have written. The draft title and the 
letter explain the motive and intention of the verses. There are 
five stanzas more, but they are too imperfect for print. 

* Lines written immediately after the Perusal of Mrs. Robin- 
son's Snow Drop. 
To the Editor of the Morning Post : 

Sir, — I am one of your many readers who have been highly 
gratified by some extracts from Mrs. Robinson's * Walsingham ' : 
You will oblige me by inserting the following lines (composed) 
immediately on the perusal of her beautiful poem. The Snow 
Drop.' " 

Coleridge was only twelve miles from the Wordsworths, and it 
was an easy matter for them to meet at the halfway trysting ground 
on Lake Thirlmere. 

There is a very significant memorial of these happy days spent 
with the Wordsworths by the side of the coach road at Thirl- 
mere. On The Rock of Names, which was preserved by Dr. 
Rawnsley (the guardian of all things sacred on the Lakes), when 
demolition threatened it at the hands of the workmen as Thirl- 
mere was being transformed into a reservoir for the city of Man- 
chester, was engraved the initials, W. W., S. T. C, D. W., J. 
W., M. H., and S. H. Wordsworth says : 
" We worked until the initials took 
Shapes that defied a scornful look, 
For they were graven on thy smooth breast 
By hands of those my soul loved best. ' ' 

Of one of these excursions Dorothy writes under date of May 14, 
1802, " We rested several times by the way, read, and repeated 
The Leechgatherer. . . . We saw Coleridge on the Wytheburn 
side of the water j he crossed the beck to us. . . . We rested 



i8oo] ^ote0 363 

upon a moss-covered rock rising out of the bed of the river. There 
we lay, ate our dinner, and stayed there until about four o'clock or 
later. William and Coleridge repeated and read verses. We parted 
from Coleridge at Sara's Crag. . . . William deepened the X 
(middle strokes) with C.'s penknife. . , . C. looked well and 
parted from us cheerfully, hopping upon the sides of the stone." 

It was near here toward Wytheburn that Gray, on that eventful 
morning of his visit to the Lakes on October 8, 1769, coming 
from Keswick, saw Grasmere. " One of the greatest landscapes 
that art ever attempted to imitate. . . . Not a single red tile, no 
flaming gentleman's house, or garden walls break in upon the re- 
pose of this little unsuspected paradise, but all is peace, rusticity and 
happy poverty in its neatest, most becoming attire. ' ' — Journal on 
the Lakes. 

Here at Nag's Head Inn Keats slept (June, 1 81 8), after hav- 
ing been disappointed at not finding Wordsworth at home. He 
writes his brother Tom, saying : — *' I wrote a note and left it on 
his mantelpiece, thence on we came to the foot of Helvellyn, 
where we slept, but could not ascend for the mist. ' ' From the 
old inn in 1830 set out a merry party for a tramp over the hills 
to the " wide glimmering sea." Matthew Arnold, his sister 
'*Fausta," his brother Tom, his father Dr. Arnold, and Captain 
Hamilton, the history of which is given in Arnold's Resignation. 
" High on the^bank our leader stands, 
Reviews and ranks his motley bands, 
Makes clear our goal to every eye, — 
The valley's western boundary. 

And now, in front, behold outspread 
Those upper regions we must tread ! 
Mild hollows, and clear heathy swells. 
The cheerful silence of the fells." 

On this spot stands a simple memorial of the event erected by 
Dr. Rawnsley. 

1801-1801. 
ODE TO TRANQUILLITY. 
First printed in the Morning Post, Dec. 4, 1801. 



364 il^otesf [1802 

This year is full of trouble for Coleridge. He has many plans 
for work, but little comes of them. Now it is The Rise and 
Condition of the German Boors, the study of Chemistry, a work 
Concerning Poetry, completion of Christabel, &c. Clearly enough, 
there is not much income in this speculating. He becomes ill, 
laudanum, which he calls the ' Kendal Black Drop,' is pre- 
scribed, and terrible results follow. Cf. Wordsworth, Stanzas 
ivritten in my Pocket Copy of Thomson s Canto of Indolence. He 
wants to go to the Azores for his health, and Wordsworth inter- 
cedes for him with Poole. Yet at this very time he writes : *' My 
Spirits are good, I am generally cheerful ; and when I am not it is 
because I have exchanged it for a deeper and more pleasurable 
tranquillity," and Mr. Campbell adds: — "a periphrasis, one 
fears, for opium dreams." Under such conditions we may ima- 
gine this poem to have been written. 

It must now be evident that the poetic impulse which carried 
him to such heights in 1797-98 has well nigh spent itself. 
Gleams of the great ideals like the flashing of a shield come, 
but only for a moment, and they serve but to illumine the sur- 
rounding darkness. 

This poem breathes the spirit which came upon him while in 
the happy seclusion and calm repose of Dove Cottage, a spirit 
which induced him to give up the tumult of political agitation. 

Mr. Campbell says that in the first version of this ode there were 
two introductory stanzas which were never reprinted by Cole- 
ridge. 

1802-1802. 
DEJECTION : AN ODE. 
First printed in Morning Post Oct. 4, 1802, in Poems, 1817. 

There are three versions of this poem : the first in Coleorton 
Papers of Coleridge, the second, that of Morning Post, and the 
third, that of Poems, 181 7, given here. 

New sorrows came to Coleridge which moved him still farther 
from the harbor of tranquillity. Domestic estrangement, which all 
who knew the conditions of his marriage foresaw with trembling, 
now became chronic, filling his cup of woe to the brim. All 
the more bitter it was because of the new life of love which was 



i8o2] pom 365 

now permeating Dove Cottage, where all activity was centred 
around the approaching marriage of Wordsworth to Mary Hutch- 
inson. In Prelude VI., after alluding to Dorothy, Wordsworth 

says : — 

"Another maid there was, who also shed 
A gladness o'er that season, then to me, 
By her exulting outside look of youth 
And placid under-countenance, first endeared ; 
That other spirit, Coleridge ! who is now 
So near to us, that meek confiding heart, 
So reverenced by us both." 

The three stages of Wordsworth's relation to her should be read 
in the beautiful poem, SAe ivas a Phantom of Delight. 

For this greatest blight in the life of two souls we are not 
required to fix responsibility. More than enough has been written 
of Coleridge's faults as a husband, and of Mrs. Coleridge's fretfial- 
ness and disposition to worry him with swarms of petty cares j but 
certain it is that the sustenance of love had been removed, and 
there was not even sympathy in mind and taste to prevent the 
union becoming one of chains and fetters. Thomas Poole once 
wrote apropos of the impracticability of genius : <<Is genius a mis- 
fortune ? No, But people of genius ought imperiously to com- 
mand themselves to think ivithout genius of the common concerns 
of life." Coleridge went to London in the fall of 1801, wrote 
for the Morning Post, read metaphysics, and with Poole attended 
Sir Humphry Davy's lectures at the Royal Institution. In Feb- 
ruary or March he returned to Greta Hall and almost immediately 
sought the sympathy of the Wordsworths. Dorothy writes in her 
Journal of March 18, 19, Thursday and Friday, " Gave up expect- 
ing William ; a very rainy morning. I went up into the lane to 
collect a few green mosses to make the chimney gay against my 
darling's return. Poor C, I did not wish for, or expect him, it 
rained so. . . . Coleridge came in. His eyes were a little swollen 
with the wind. I was much affected by the sight of him, he 
seemed half stupefied. William came in soon after. Coleridge 
went to bed late, and William and I sate up till four o'clock." If 
we could have heard the conversation on that and other evenings 
of this time about Coleridge we might be able to judge more fairly 



366 il^Otes! [1802 

of these terrible disturbances, — but there is no word of judgment 
upon either of the parties involved. 

On the fourth of April Coleridge writes this, the saddest of all 
his poems, a threnody in wild and mournful music, 

" The first draft of this poem is addressed directly to Words- 
worth, S. T. Coleridge to William Wordsworth." Some changes 
were made in the Morning Post edition, and still greater in thac of 
1 81 7, when it appeared in Coleridge's Works. This was due to 
an unfortunate estrangement which grew up between the poets. 

1. 25. Morning Post edition has, " O, Edmund ! " etc., and 
first draft, O, William. 

1. 47. M. P. edition has, " O, Edmund ! " and first draft, " O, 
William ! ' etc. 

1. 75. Between this and 76, M. P. edition has : 

" Yes, dearest Edmund, yes ! " 

1. 120. M. P. edition has, "As Edmund's self," etc., and 
first draft, " William's self," etc. 

I. 138. M. P. edition has, " Dear Lady," etc., and first draft, 
"dear William," and between this and the following line the M. 
P. edition has : — 

" O rais'd fi-om anxious dread and busy care, 
By the immenseness of the good and fair 
Which thou see'st everywhere, 
Joy lifts thy spirit, joy attunes thy voice, 
To thee do all things live from pole to pole, 
Their life the eddying of thy living soul ! 
O simple spirit, guided from above, 
O lofty Poet, full of life and love. 
Brother and friend of my devoutest choice. 
Thus may' St thou ever, evermore rejoice ! " 

E2TH2E. 

II. 1 17-125. An allusion to Wordsworth's Lucy Gray. This 
was more evident when " William " stood in the place of " Ot- 
way. ' ' 

As the Wordsworths were at Greta Hall on April 4, it is more 
than likely that Coleridge read the poem to them. 

In this dirge at the death of his poetic powers he is prostrate 



i8o2] jpotes? 367 

in helpless and hopeless despair. Yet he sings of the glory of his 
brother poet, and of the purity of human love which he had dis- 
closed to him in the past. Mr. Stopford Brooke says : " Every 
description of Nature in the Ode to Dejection is penetrated with the 
mystic temper of his inner life, and the natural things he speaks of 
have become part of the landscape of his heart." 

There is not a little significance in the fact that this poem was 
first published in the Morning Post, October 4, 1 802, the wedding 
day of William Wordsworth and Mary Hutchinson. 

In his Latin letter to Coleridge of October 9, 1802 (Ainger's 
Letters f 1. 1 8 5 ) , Lamb makes allusion to the appearance of the 
OJe in a passage thus translated by Canon Ainger : '* I am wonder- 
fully pleased to have your account of the marriage of Wordsworth 
(or perhaps I should say of a certain Edmund of yours). All 
blessings rest on thee, Mary ! [Mrs. Wordsworth] too happy in 
thy lot. ... I wish thee also joy in this new alliance, Dorothy, 
truly so named, that other gift of God.''' — Campbell. 

On Wednesday, April 21, Dorothy writes : " William and I 
sauntered a little in the garden. Coleridge came to us, and re- 
peated the verses he wrote to Sara. I was affected by them and in 
miserable spirits." 

These verses may have been an earlier draft of this Ode ,• if so, 
he had very quickly substituted Sara (Hutchinson), the sister of 
Mrs. Wordsworth, for William, of the first draft, as he had Ed- 
mund in that and the Morning Post. In contrast to this poem we 
should read Wordsworth's A Fareivell, written at this time. 

The Rev. Canon Ainger thinks that the following lines in 
Wordsworth's Leechgatherer, 1802, refer to Coleridge of those 
days : — 

My whole life I have lived in pleasant thought, 

As if life's business were a summer mood ; 

As if all needful things would come unsought 

To genial faith, still rich in genial good j 

But how can He expect that others should 

Build for him, sow for him, and at his call 

Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all ? 

From Coleridge's Ode in turn did Wordsworth receive inspira- 
tion, as is seen in Intimations of Immortality. 



368 jl^otesf [1802 

The conception of Nature in the poem which gives it its chief 
charm is that which had been learned from Wordsworth. Here 
is no inventory of Nature's beauties, but a subtle penetration into 
the secret of her power over those who, by obedience, understand 
her mysteries. Cf. To Nature, p. 266, 

The marked difference between the mind and art of Words- 
worth and Coleridge has been fully recognized, but the fact that no 
two English poets of equal power were so much alike, especially 
in their blank verse, has had too little notice. Here it is that 
they use the same weapons, in conception and execution, against 
the mechanical devices of versification which were so prevalent. 
A study of this phase of their work, where their " sincere large 
accent nobly plain " and their power as painters are so distinctly 
revealed, will be greatly rewarding to the student. 

1 802-1 802. 



First printed in the Morning Post, Sept. 6, 1802. 

In August cheer came to Coleridge by a visit of Charles and 
Mary Lamb. " He received us," says Lamb, " with all hospital- 
ity in the world, and gave up his time to show us all the wonders 
of his country. . . . Here we stayed three full weeks." This 
poem was written during Lamb's visit, and it is at such times 
when, stimulated by the warmth of human associations, his emo- 
tion rouses imagination into something of its wonted shaping 
power. 

If one reads Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal for this year one will 
find how pained she and her brother were at the trouble in which 
Coleridge was. *' Bad news of Coleridge," " We had a melan- 
choly letter from Coleridge," are the frequent entries. 

It should be remembered that Lamb was a '* scorner of the fields '* 
until he visited the Lakes. To the first invitation hither he re- 
plied : "Sweets, sweets, sweets, markets, theatres, churches, Co- 
vent Gardens, shops sparkling with pretty faces of industrious mil- 
liners. . . . Gentlemen behind counters lying, authors in the 
street with spectacles, ... old book stalls, these are thy plea- 
sures O London ! with — the — many — sins. O city, for these may 
Keswick and her giant brood go hang." Yet this slave to the 



i8o2] 0ottii 369 

*' dry drudgery of the desk's dead wood " was ** a scorner of the 
fields more in show than truth," for the mountains, lakes and 
sounding cataracts wrought their spell upon him here, and after 
his return to his work he writes of his arrival : " We thought 
we had got into fairyland. . . . Skiddaw, Oh, its fine black 
head, and the bleak air atop of it, with a parapet of mountains 
all about, making you giddy, ... It was a day that will stand 
out like a mountain, I am sure, in my life. I feel very litt/e. 
... I had been dreaming I was great." 

He writes later : ** I was pleased to recognize your blank-verse 
poem (the Picture) in the Morning Post of Monday. It reads 
well, and I feel some dignity in the notion of being able to under- 
stand it better than most southern readers." 

When the poem appeared in the Sih. Lea'ves, 1817, it was 
altered and enlarged. Lines 17-26, and 34-42 had been added. 
Mr. Campbell says : *' The poem was kept under the file up to 
1829. 

1.4. Whorts — Whortleberries. 

11. 17-25. In 1814, when Coleridge was very despondent, he 
wrote to Cottle in regard to feelings he had about death, saying 
that he had to fight against preferring "annihilation to the pos- 
sibility of heaven," and alludes to his "constitutional idiosyn- 
crasy " when a mere boy, as revealed in 11. 1-4 of the Monody 
on the Death of Chatterton (Second Version) ; and also quotes 
these lines with frequent alterations : 

" Here Wisdom might abide and here Remorse ! 

Here too the wee worn (written over heart-sick erased) man who 

weak in soul 
And of this busy human Heart a-weary. 
Worships the spirit of unconscious Life. 
In Tree or Wild-flower. Gentle Lunatic ! 
If so he might not wholly come to Be, 
He would far rather not be that he is 5 
But would be something that he knows not of. 
In Woods or Waters, or among the Rocks." 

Cf. Wordsworth, Lines Left on a Seat in a Yeiv Tree and 
Three Tears She Grezu in Sun and Shower. 



370 ^Om [i8oz 



I802-I802. 

HYMN BEFORE SUNRISE IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNI. 

First printed in the Morning Pest, Sept. 11, 1802. 

This poem reveals Coleridge's indisposition to seek out new 
subjects for poetry either in Nature about him or in his own 
deep experience. He had never been at Chamouni, but he ex- 
panded a German poem by Frederica Brun addressed to Klop- 
stock. The sights and sounds with which this solemn and beauti- 
ful psalm begins gradually become so intimately associated with 
the thoughts which they awaken, that his soul is swept onward 
and upward until it creates the spiritual vision of it all as an 
emanation from God. This is Coleridge's revelation to us of the 
union of God and man through Nature. It is perhaps worthy of 
note that another poem by the same author, Sieben Hiigel, is 
thought to have suggested to Wordsworth the idea for " We 
Are Seven." 

Here is the first stanza of her poem to Klopstock : 

* * Aus tiefen Schatten des schweigenden Tannenhains 
Erblick' ich bebend dich, Scheitel der Ewigkeit, 
Blenden der Gipfel, von dessen Hohe 
Ahndend mein Geist ins Unendliche Schwebel ! " 

When this poem first appeared Coleridge wrote an introductory 
note in which he discussed the various elements of the scenery in 
the Savoy Alps in such a way as to give the reader an impres- 
sion that he wrote the poem from sights and sounds which had 
been actually his. So when De Quincey, in 1834, revealed the 
fact that Coleridge had not only not been at Chamouni, but that 
he was indebted to the German poetess for the suggestion of the 
poem and also for many of the ideas, words, and images, it created 
some discussion. It seemed strange that Coleridge never acknowl- 
edges to any one this indebtedness. The defence of this act which 
Henry Nelson Coleridge gives in the Preface to Table Talk is in 
principle sound, and yet it hardly meets this particular case. 

Coleridge once said that a visit to the battlefield of Marathon 
would raise in him no emotions which he did not already pos- 
sess, and Wordsworth, discussing this, said : "It might in some 



i8o2] jpote0 371 

sense be true, for Coleridge was not under the influence of external 
objects. . He had extraordinary powers of summing up an image or 
series of images in his own mind, and he might mean that his idea 
of Marathon was so vivid that no visible observation could make it 
more so. A remarkable instance of this is his poem said to be 
'composed in the Vale of Chamouni.' Now, he never was at 
Chamouni, or near it, in his life." Prose "Works, III., p. 442. 

Mr. Campbell says that there are four versions of the Poem 
which are associated with The Friend. I. That in the Forster 
Collection at South Kensington. II. The Friend, No. XI., first 
issue. III. The Friend, second issue. IV. The Friend, first 
issue as corrected by the Errata and Corrigenda printed in No. 
XIII. 

1 802-1 802. 

AN ODE TO THE RAIN. 

Probably first printed in the Morning Post about October, 1802. 

(J. D. Campbell.) 

Coleridge's life was not all dejection by any means, even if it was 
getting somewhat commonplace, for he still had power to emit a 
note of cheerfulness under such adverse circumstances, as we found 
him in this poem. 

In October Coleridge wrote to J. Wedgewood : ** The poetry 
I have sent [to the M. P.] is merely the emptying of my desk." 

11. 21, 22. Cf Youth and Age, 1-4. 

When we compare the poetical work of Coleridge and Words- 
worth we find that genius is not exempt from Burke's principle of 
development : " Taste is improved," Burke says, "exactly as we 
improve our judgment, by extending our knowledge, by a steady 
attention to our object, and by frequent exercise." 

1802-1802. 
INSCRIPTION FOR A FOUNTAIN. 

First printed in the Morning Post, September 24, 1 802. 

In the fall of this year Coleridge vis'ted Wales with the Wedge- 
woods ; when he returned to Dove Cottage on his way home he 
was informed that on the previous morning a daughter had been 
born to him. 



372 0OttS [1802 

In Sara Coleridge's Recollections I find the following: **My 
father entered his marriage with my mother, and the births of my 
three brothers in a family Bible given him by Joseph Cottle on his 
marriage j the entry of my birth is in my dear mother's handwrit- 
ing, and this seems like an omen of our life-long separation, for I 
never lived with him for more than a few weeks at a time. ' ' 

This poem reveals the fact that there were moments in Cole- 
ridge's life at this time when he got relief in the simplest poetic 
exercise in enjoyment of Nature. This feeling for the beauty of 
the world about him never forsook him, it is the golden thread 
which binds all his distinctively great work together. It con- 
stituted for him a Fairyland in which he was laid asleep in body 
and became a living soul. Wordsworth describes this power of 
Coleridge in the Prelude V., 600. 

In the annotated copy of P. W., 1828, Coleridge wrote : 

*' This fountain is an exact emblem of what Mrs. Gillman was 
by nature , . . it was a crystal fount of water undefiled." 

1802-1802. 

ANSWER TO A CHILD's QUESTION. 

First printed in the Morning Post, October 16, 1802. 

It is fitting that the last of the poems of this year should be 
in celebration of childlike simplicity and wonder. David Hartley, 
precocious in thought and imagination, lived in weird dreams, 
having given himself various names indicating his manifold being, 
** Real Hartley, Shadow Hartley, Picture Hartley, Looking Glass 
Hartley, and Catch-me-fast Hartley." One day when his father 
was surprised at his lack of pleasure as he was being wheeled in a 
wheelbarrow, he replied : *' The pity is that I'se always think- 
ing of my thoughts." Again he said, " I'm a boy of very reli- 
gious turn," Every night he made an extempore prayer aloud, 
saying to his old nurse, ** Now listen !" He was fond of the 
Bible and Prayer Book. Once when ill of stomach ache, he said : 
'* Oh, Mrs. Wilson, I'se got co/ic ! read me the Epistle and Gos- 
pel for the day." Here is Wordsworth's picture of the wonder- 
ful boy, — which Mr. Walter Bagehot calls '* the best ever written 
on a real and visible child." 



i8o2] 0ott& 373 



TO H. C, SIX YEARS OLD. 

O Thou ! whose fancies from afar are brought j 

Who of thy words dost make a mock apparel, 

And fittest to unutterable thought 

The breeze-like motion and the self-born carol ; 

Thou faery voyager ! that dost float 

In such clear water, that thy boat 

May rather seem 

To brood on air than on an earthly stream j 

Suspended in a stream as clear as sky, 

Where earth and heaven do make one imagery j 

blessed vision ! happy child ! 
Thou art so exquisitely wild, 

1 think of thee with many fears 

For what may be thy lot in future years. 

O vain and causeless melancholy ! 

Nature will either end thee quite ; 

Or, lengthening out thy season of delight. 

Preserve for thee, by individual right, 

A young lamb's heart among the full-grown flocks. 

According to Mr, Bagehot, Hartley was of the class who 
"are children through life j who act on wayward impulse, and 
whose will has never come ; who toil not and who spin not ; 
who always have fair Eden's simpleness. " It was ** but natural, 
therefore, that he should be known in the Lakes where he lived 
a quarter of a century — as the children's laureate." 

And here is Derwent, <' Stumpy canary," as he was called, be- 
cause he wore a yellow coat. When his father asked him, 
*' Who made you ? " he replied, "James Lawson, the carpenter, 
father " j and to the question, " And what did he make you of ? " 
he answered, " The stuff he makes wood of, he sawed me off and 
I did not like it." Last of all is the dark-eyed Sara, cooing 
questions in her cradle. 

Amid so many records of distress and hopelessness, it is refresh- 
ing to come upon these wholesome and buoyant notes of poetic 
childhood, where there is no attempt to establish truth, but to give 
pleasure. 



374 il^otesf [1803 

The first title of the poem was The Language of Birds : Lines 
Spoken Extempore to a Little Child in Early Spring. 

Mr. Campbell says that it has been twice set to music : The 
Song of the Birds, by J. M, Capes, 1863 ; and as I Lo've and I 
Lo-ve, by S. Marshall, 1861. 

1803-1817. 

THE PAINS OF SLEEP. 

First printed in 181 7 in a pamphlet with Christabel and Kubla 

Khan. 

In 1803 Coleridge, in his uneasiness of mind and body, visited 
the Wedgewoods, Southey at Bristol, and Poole at Stowey, in the 
scenes which had been so dear to him. He met Scott, who had 
just published The Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border, and Sir Hum- 
phry Davy in London, but he got little relief. Returning to Kes- 
wick he planned a great work, " Organum vere Organum," 
which should supersede Bacon's '* Novum Organum." It was to 
be in eight volumes, but he got only as far as a few letters to his 
friends giving prospectus. Lamb had superintended the reprint, 
the third edition, of his poems. In August Wordsworth and his 
sister set out upon their memorable journey to Scotland, and 
Coleridge was induced to accompany them. His courage was 
good at the start, and he held out until they reached Inversnaid, 
or more exactly Arrochar, when, tired of the walking and the 
jolting of the jaunting car, he parted with them and started 
homeward. 

A frequent entry in Dorothy's "Journal (which every student 
should read) is: — "Coleridge was weary, but William and I 
walked out after tea," *' Coleridge was not well," " Coleridge was 
afraid of the cold." And after the parting, ** Our thoughts were 
full of Coleridge." Mr. J. D. Campbell says : "I suppose Cole- 
ridge had found the close companionship incompatible with that 
free indulgence in narcotics which had become to him a neces- 
sity." In Memorials of Coleorton there is a letter from Coleridge 
to Sir George Beaumont in September, 1803, in which he says : 
'* I walked 263 miles in eight days in the hope of forcing the dis- 
ease (gout) into the extremities. . . . During the whole of my 
journey, three nights out of four I have fallen asleep struggling, and 



i8o3] ^Ott& 375 

resolving to lie awake, and awaking have blessed the Scirans 
which delivered me from reluctant sleep. These dreams, with all 
their mockery of guilt, rage, unworthy desires, remorse, shame, 
and terror, formed at that time the subject of some Verses." 
Such is the history of T/ie Pains of Sleep, which should be 
compared with the Kubla Khan as showing quite a different result 
of dreams. 

De Quincey, in his Confessions of an English Opium Eater, gives 
a graphic description of similar experiences. In Part III. Pains 
of Opium, he says of his dreams of lakes and expanse of water 
changing into a sea : " The sea appeared paved with innumerable 
faces, upturned to the heavens : faces imploring, wrathful, de- 
spairing ; faces that surged upwards by thousands, by myriads, by 
generations ; infinite was my agitation ; my mind tossed, as it 
seemed, upon the billowy ocean, and weltered upon the welter- 
ing waves." 

Lowell, who believed that Coleridge's opium habit was congeni- 
tal, in warning us against making sermons on the frailties of great 
men, says : 

'* Our own are a far more profitable subject of contemplation. 
Let the man of imaginative temperament, who has never pro- 
crastinated, who has made all that was possible of his powers, 
cast the first stone." 

Dr. Gillman always insisted that Coleridge's habit was not due to 
idleness or sensual indulgence. ** No," he says, ** it was a latent 
disease." 

What a contrast we have here to Wordsworth's restfulness ! It 
would be profitable to consider how much of the contrast presented 
in the nature of the two was due to physical basis. Wordsworth 
wrote : *' My whole life I have lived in quiet thought." 

Emerson, in a letter to Prof. Henry Reed, said of Wordsworth: 
♦* It is very easy to see that to act so powerfully in this prac- 
tical age, with all his Oriental abstraction, he needed the indomit- 
able vigor rooted in animal constitution." 

11. 51,52.— 

** His soul fared forth (as from the deep home-grove 
The father-songster plies the hour-long quest) 
To feed his soul-brood hungering in the nest ; 
But his warm Heart, the mother-bird, above 



376 0om [1804 

Their callow fledgling progeny still hove 

With tented roof of wings and fostering breast 
Till the Soul fed the soul-brood. Richly blest 

From Heaven their growth, whose food was Human Love." 
— Dante Gabriel Rossetti. 



1 804-1 834. 
PHANTOM. 
First printed in 1834. 

" Found in a Diary kept during the voyage to Malta." (Camp- 
bell. ) 

Before Coleridge reached home, Southey, who had just buried 
his firstborn at Bristol, came to Greta Hall to live. He had lit- 
erary plans which must be executed, and on finding he could not 
live in Wales as he wished, Greta Hall was a natural resting place 
for him. He occupied one half of the house and the Coleridges 
the other, together with the Jacksons. The two families break- 
fasted in common in the room called Paul, and dined in another 
called Peter. Southey pleasantly dubbed the household TAe Ant 
Hill. 

Sir George Beaumont had bought a small property at Apple- 
thwaite, a mile away, for Wordsworth, in order that he might be 
near Coleridge. Of this gift Wordsworth writes us a sonnet : 

' * Beaumont, it was thy wish that I should rear 
A seemly cottage in this sunny dell ; 
On favoured ground, thy gift, where I might dwell 
In neighbourhood with one to me most dear, 
That undivided we from year to year 
Might work in our high calling — a bright hope 
To which our fancies, mingling, gave free scope 
TDl checked by some necessities severe." 

The "necessities severe" we have just seen in The Pains of 
Sleep. The damp climate of the Lakes increased his physical ail- 
ment, and in December, 1803, he was about to seek relief with 
Poole in London, when on the way he fell ill, and for nearly a 
month was cared for by Mrs. Wordsworth and Dorothy at Dove 
Cottage. 



i8o5] ^Otta ^ 277 

In a letter written to Mr. Richard Sharp immediately after his 
illness at Dove Cottage he reveals how pathetically the life there 
affected him. *' I had only just strength enough to smile grate- 
fully on my kind nurses, who tended me with a sister's and a 
mother's love, and often I know wept for me in their sleep 
and watched for me even in their dreams. O, dear sir, it does 
a man's heart good, I will not say to know such a family, but 
even to know there is such a family . . . it is the happiest 
family I ever saw. . . . Wordsworth is a poet, a most original 
one, and I feel myself a better poet in knowing how to honour Aim, 
than in all my own poetic compositions." 

He arrived in London late in January, 1804, visited Davy, God- 
win and Lamb, and wrote for the Courier. He planned more 
great works, as usual, all the time hoping to visit Malta for relief 
from his disease. For this visit Wordsworth loaned ;!^ioo, and 
Sir George Beaumont gave the same amount. Mrs. Coleridge was 
provided for by the annuity of the Wedgewoods, ;i^i50. He 
sailed from Portsmouth in April with two other passengers, " a 
liverless half-pay lieutenant, and an unconscionably fat woman, 
who would have wanted elbow room in Salisbury Plain." In 
July he became private secretary to Vice-Admiral Sir Alexander 
John Ball, the governor, and one of Nelson's captains. 

"This little dream-poem," says Mr. J. D. Campbell, ''was 
found in a diary kept during the voyage to Malta. ' ' 

1805- ? 
A SUNSET. 



Malta was one of the most interesting political centres in Eu- 
rope. First taken by Napoleon and then by the English, it was 
now held as the key to the East. 

In August Coleridge became restless and visited Sicily, where he 
remained until November, when he returned to Malta. 

Mr. J. D. Campbell says : 

" These verses were found in a note-book dated Malta, Aug. 
16, 1805, with the statement that they were written as 'non- 
sense verses,' merely to try a metre ; but they are by no means 
contemptible. ' ' 



378 iliotes? [1805 

If we glance at the humble cot at Grasmere with its plain living 
and high thinking at this time, we find two feelings striving for 
utterance : gladness in the presence of the childlife of the infant 
daughter Dora, and sorrow at the tragic death of the beloved 
brother out of which grew the Ode to Duty, To a Skylark, To the 
Daisy, and the Elegiac Stanzas and Character of the Happy War- 
rior. In the midst of it all there was room for tender thoughts of 
Coleridge, as is seen in the sixth book of the Prelude, which was 
then being fashioned. 

" No absence scarcely can there be for those 
Who love as we do ; speed thee well ! divide 
With us thy pleasure ; thy returning strength, 
Receive it daily as a joy of ours ; 
Share with us thy fresh spirits, whether gift 
Of gales Etesian or of tender thoughts." 

Before Coleridge left he had urged Wordsworth to work hard on 
the Recluse (to which the Prelude was a Portico). He said : " I 
prophesy immortality to the Recluse as the first and finest philo- 
sophical poem, if it only be, as it undoubtedly will be, a faithful tran- 
script of his own most august and innocent life, of his own habitual 
feelings, and modes of seeing and hearing." While Coleridge is 
away, and after he had completed the Prelude, Wordsworth writes 
to Sir George Beaumont : " Within this last month ( Aug. , 1 805 ) , 
I have returned to the Recluse, and have written 700 additional 
lines. Should Coleridge return, so that I might have some con- 
versation with him on the subject, I should go on swimmingly." 

Wordsworth, in the closing book of the Prelude, which he 
dedicated to Coleridge, paid the following tribute to him and his 
influences: 

*' With such a theme, 
Coleridge ! with this my argument, of thee 
Shall I be silent ? O capacious Soul ! 
Placed on this earth to love and understand. 
And from thy presence shed the light of love, 
Shall I be mute, ere thou be spoken of? 
Thy kindred influence to my heart of hearts 
Did also find its way." 



i8o5] jliotes? 379 

I805-I829. 

WHAT IS LIFE ? 

First printed in the Literary Sowvenir, 1829. 

Soon Coleridge tires of his official life, gets homesick, and plans 
to return to England in May. On May Day he is almost broken- 
hearted to think he cannot go at once. On hearing of the death 
of John Wordsworth he ' kept his bed for a fortnight.' In Anima 
PoetiSy there is the following allusion to the last words of John 
Wordsworth : '* ' I have done my duty,' let her go." Coleridge 
says : " Let us do o\xr duty ! all else is a dream, life and death alike 
a dream." It is but natural that this poem should be the result of 
such experiences. 

At this time Wordsworth is writing of him and of the high hope 
in their common endeavors : 

*' We shall still 
Find solace — knowing what we have learnt to know, 
Rich in true happiness if allowed to be 
Faithful alike in forwarding a day 
Of firmer trust, joint labourers in the work 
(Should Providence such grace to us vouchsafe) 
Of their deliverance surely yet to come. 
Prophets of Nature, we to them will speak 
A lasting inspiration, sanctified 
By reason, blest by faith : what we have loved, 
Others will love, and we will teach them how." 

Prelude, XIV. 
1805 (?)-i828. 
CONSTANCY TO AN IDEAL OBJECT. 
First printed in Poetical PForks, 1828. 

The date of this poem cannot be accurately determined, but Mr. 
Campbell believes it was written in Malta. 

This poem is full of the heart-sickness which became so intense 
during his absence at Malta, and is the prominent note in the 
poems of this period of unsettled mental and physical constitution. 
He has reached the height of his life, and he gets no glimpse of 
heights that are higher. 



38o jliote0 [i8os 

1805-1828. 

THE BLOSSOMING OF THE SOLITARY DATE TREE. 
First printed in Poetical fForks, 1828. 

Nothing definite is known of the origin and date of this poem, 
but Mr. J. D. Campbell places it in this year conjecturally. 

It seems clear that there is much of autobiographic interest 
here which lies beneath the surface. Perhaps it is well that each 
reader must determine this for himself and thus gain in power to 
sympathize with the sufferer. 

11. 28-30. Cf. Allsop's Letters, 1864, p. 208. 

Mr. Campbell gives the following note, — 

1. 31. *' In a letter (unpublished) written in 18 19 to a young 
friend who was about to be married Coleridge wrote : * O ! that 
you could appreciate by the light of other men's experience ' the 
anguish which prompted the ejaculation, 

* ' Why was I made for love, yet love denied to me ? " 

or the state of suffering instanced by the following description : 

" Lingering he raised his latch at eve, 
Though tired in heart and limb j 
He loved no other place, and yet 
Home was no home to him.' 

{■V. Three Graves, 11. 451-454.) 

In a little poem, Homeless, written at this time, there is the same 
pathetic strain : 

'* O ! Christmas Day, Oh ! happy day, 
A foretaste from above, 
To him who hath a happy home, 
And love returned from love." 

1806-1833. 
A THOUGHT SUGGESTED BY A VIEW OF SADDLEBACK. 
First printed in the Amulet for 1833. 

Coleridge at last left Malta in September, 1805, for Naples, 
where he heard the news of Nelson's victory at Trafalgar. He 



i8o6] Jl^OteS! 381 

remained until January, 1806, when he went to Rome. Within a 
fortnight after his arrival at Rome the French entered Naples. 
While in the Imperial City he made many new acquaintances, 
Baron W. von Humboldt and Ludwig Tieck. Here too he won 
the friendship of the American painter, Washington AUston. It 
is to this friendship that we owe the best of all the portraits of the 
poet. The original of this is in the possession of Miss R. Charlotte 
Dana, Boston. His stay in Rome was cut short by an order for 
his arrest issued by Napoleon because of some of his articles years 
before in the Morning Post. He was assisted by friends — some 
say the Pope himself — and disguised he went to Leghorn, engaged 
passage on an American vessel ( as a steward ? ) and set out for 
home, running the gauntlet of the French men-ot-war. In forty- 
five days he arrived at Portsmouth, August 11, 1806. 

Although Coleridge said that this poem was a ' ' versified reflec- 
tion," and that it arose from gazing at three parallel Forces, on a 
moonlight night at the foot of Saddleback Fell, Mr. Campbell 
adds : " The * reflection ' was doubtless made at Saddleback Fell, 
but it was versified at Olevano, Tuscany, March 8, 1806." 

When they were chased by the French vessel, Coleridge threw 
his papers overboard, and thus we have no fruits of his labors in 
Rome. 

1806-1893 ? 

AD VrLMUM AXIOLOGUM.^ 

(William Wordsworth.) 

There is no certain date for this little poem, but inasmuch as 
Coleridge wrote (in 18 18 in The Friend, Sect. II., essay XI.) 
that he read to Humboldt in Rome Wordsworth's Ode on Intima- 
tions of Immortality, it is not impossible that it was suggested by 
that poem. That poem itself was not completed until this year, 
but Coleridge may have had a draft of it, as he surely had parts of 
the Prelude with him. It has, too, a natural connection with the 
poem which follows. 

1 Wordsworth's first printed verses were signed with his name 
Latinized, * Axiologus. ' 



382 ^om [1806, 7 

1807-1815. 

TO A GENTLEMAN [William Wordsworth]. 
First printed in Sibylline Lea'ves, 1815, pub. 1817. 

In a few days after landing Coleridge went to Lamb in London, 
even leaving friends to inform Mrs. Coleridge of his return. He 
began work at once on the Courier. Wordsworth knew that 
Coleridge * dare not go home, ' and he wrote him to come to the 
Lakes or to meet him in London. On the i6th of September 
Coleridge wrote his wife for the first time since his return saying 
that she might expect him at Greta Hall on the 29th. In the 
mean time Sir Humphry Davy had arranged for him to give a 
course of lectures at the Royal Institution. Of the next three 
months of his history we know only what can be gathered from the 
letters of his friends who were anxious that he should have an 
understanding with his wife. The Wordsworths had found Dove 
Cottage too small for their growing family, and had taken for the 
winter a farmhouse belonging to Sir George Beaumont at Coleorton, 
and were busy laying out the grounds for the new mansion, and so 
they wintered Coleridge there. Sara Hutchinson was with them. 
Hither Coleridge came with Hartley in December. Cf. Memorials 
of Coleorton^ Knight. Early in January, 1807, Wordsworth recited 
to Coleridge the just completed autobiographical poem, The Prelude^ 
with results revealed in this poem, which is more pathetic even 
than the Ode to Dejection, and need no comment to those who 
have followed his life thus far. 

The many changes in the text have the same significance as 
those already noted in the Ode to Dejection, and for the same rea- 
son. The earliest form of the poem which he sent to the Beau- 
monts in 1 807 is full of personalities of the warmest kind, but these 
were omitted in the version of 181 7. 

The main changes from first version are : 

I. I . First version has : — 

«' O Friend ! O Teacher ! God's great gift to me ! " 

II. 61, 62. Instead of these, first version has : — 
*' Dear shall it be to every human heart, 

To me how more than dearest ! me, on whom 
Comfort from thee, and utterance of thy love. 



i8o7] ^om 383 

Came with such heights and depths of harmony, 
. Such sense of wings uplifting, that its might 
Scattered and quell'd me, till my thoughts became 
A bodily tumult ; and thy faithful hopes, 
Thy hopes of me, dear Friend, by me.unfelt ! 
Were troublous to me, almost as a voice, 
Familiar once, and more than musical ; 
As a dear woman's voice to one cast forth, 
A wanderer with a worn-out heart forlorn. 
Mid strangers pining with untended wounds. 
O Friend, too well thou know'st, of what sad years 
The long suppression had benumb'd my soul." 
1. 83. For *' Sage Bard," first version has '* Friend." 
1. 107. Between this and the following line first version has : — 

( All whom I deepliest love — in one room all ! ) 
" Coleorton Farmhouse contained at the time — besides Cole- 
ridge and his little son Hartley — Wordsworth, his wife and chil- 
dren, his sister Dorothy, and his sister-in-law Miss Sara Hutchinson. 
It was a cruel line ; for it excluded not merely his wife — from 
whom a formal separation had almost been arranged — but his 
children Derwent and Sara ; to say nothing of Thomas Poole." — 
J. D. Campbell. 

1807 ?-i828. 

A DAY DREAM. 
First printed in the Bijou, 1828. 

There is some doubt as to the date of this poem, but the atmos- 
phere seems to be that of the days at Coleorton with the Words- 
worths and Sara Hutchinson. If this be true, '* Asra" is Sara 
Hutchinson, and *' Mary " is Mrs. Wordsworth j " our sister and 
our friend," William and Dorothy Wordsworth. 

1807 ?-i8i7. 

RECOLLECTIONS OF LOVE. 

First printed in Sibylline Lea-ves, 1 8 1 7. 

Coleridge remained at Coleorton until the middle of February 
(1807), when he took Hartley to London, where he completed 



384 jliote0 [1809 

arrangements for a course of lectures. In May they joined Mrs. 
Coleridge and the other children at Bristol, where they had been 
for several months. In June the family became the guests of 
Poole at Stowey. 

Poole writes : ' ' Hartley exactly like his father 5 Derwent, like 
him too, but stronger bodied, and with more of the common world 
in him j Sara, a sweet little animated fairy." 

Naturally enough, these haunts called back those delightful days 
of 1797-98 only to intensify his wretchedness. Cf. Thomas Poole 
and His Friends, Vol. II. Chapter viii. 

Mr. Campbell says : * ' The date of composition worked out by 
the * eight springs ' of the second stanza gives the summer (or 
later) of 1817, but Mr. Ernest Hartley Coleridge thinks the poem 
may have been written in 1803, regarding the 'sequel' as merely 
a * figure of speech ' more harmonious than six or nine or what not. " 

1809?-! 809. 
A TOMBLESS EPITAPH. 
First printed in The Friend, 1809. 

Through the good offices of Cottle, Coleridge came to know 
De Quincey, who had just completed his course at Oxford. He 
had been visiting Lamb, and in the fall of 1807 was in Somer- 
setshire. Hearing that Coleridge had returned from abroad, he 
was anxious to meet him. The meeting took place at the 
house of a Mr. Chubb in Bridgwater, where the Coleridges 
were spending a few days. Interesting accounts of this meeting 
will be found in Cottle's Reminiscences and De Quincey's Memo- 
rials. It is significant to note that while Coleridge knew no- 
thing of the fact that De Quincey had begun the opium habit 
at Oxford, he warned him against a habit which had ' so over- 
clouded his own life.' When, in October, Mrs. Coleridge re- 
turned to Greta Hall, De Quincey accompanied her and the 
children thither. On the way they spent several days with the 
Wordsworths at Dove Cottage, and De Quincey became inter- 
ested in the house which later became his home. On return- 
ing to Bristol and finding Coleridge in straits he sent him through 
Cottle the handsome sum of ;^300. From September to No- 
vember Coleridge was in Bristol visiting the family of Mr, Mor- 



i8o9] Jliotefif 385 

gan ; he then went to London to arrange for his lectures, which 
he began early in the new year, 1808, and concluded in June. 
He then went to Bury St. Edmunds to visit the Clarksons, 
who had lived at Penrith while he was at Greta Hall, and 
were friends of his and the Wordsworths. 

Thomas Clarkson's great work for the abolition of the slave 
trade had been crowned with success in 1807, and Wordsworth 
wrote : — 

' * See, the palm 

Is won, and by all nations shall be worn 

The blood-stained enemy is forever torn ; 

And thou henceforth will have a good man's calm, 

A great man's happiness." 

Coleridge, too, had just reviewed for the Edinburgh Revieiv 
Clarkson's work, "The History of the Abolition of the Slave 
Trade." 

Mr. J. Dykes Campbell says : " It was no doubt owing to her 
(Mrs. Clarkson's) good influence that he at the time relin- 
quished laudanum, or at least the abuse of it." 

The Wordsworths, about this time, were leaving Dove Cottage 
for a brger house at Allan Bank, just across the lake at the foot 
of Silve How, and De ^uincey was about to become resident at Dove 
Cottage. 

After visiting the Clarksons, Coleridge came to Allan Bank, 
and arranged to put Hartley and Derwent in school at Am- 
bleside. Dorothy writes at this time: "Mr. Coleridge and his 
wife are separated, and I hope they will both be the happier for it. 
Coleridge intends to spend the winter with us." During the 
winter (1808-9) ^^ ^^^ ^"^Y °" ^'^ "^^ project. The Friend^ 
a literary, moral and political weekly. The first number did not 
appear until June, and before the next June the project, like so 
many others, was abandoned. In the last few numbers there 
appeared what were called Satyranes Letters, written by himself ; 
and in an issue, November 23, 1809, when the embers of his 
poetic genius were smouldering in their funeral urn, they momenta- 
rily beamed forth in this Epitaphium. 

Coleridge said the poem was ' ' imitated in the movements rather 
than the thought from the Vllth of Gli Epitafi of Chiabrera. ' ' 



386 JliOte0 [1814 

Prof. Dowden says : *< I like to remember Coleridge in connec- 
tion with that memorial poem adapted from the Italian of Chia- 
brera, where he names himself Satyrane the idoloclast-idoloclast, 
because he hated the objects of vain worship of his own day : Saty- 
rane, because, like the sylvan protector of Spenser's Una, he had a 
* wild-wood fancy and impetuous zeal.' " 

1814-1817. 
A PORTRAIT OF SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT. 

First printed in Sibylline Leaves, 1 8 1 7, from Remorse. 

After the failure of The Friend Coleridge visited the Montagus 
at Soho, but because of their unwise quoting of a word of advice, 
given them in regard to Coleridge by Wordsworth with the best of 
intentions, estrangement followed between the two poets on the 
one hand and between Coleridge and his host on the other, so 
that he went to visit Mr. John Morgan at Hammersmith, with 
whom he visited at Bristol in 1807 ; this visit was extended 
until 1 816, and began a new era in the poet's career. (Cf. 
J. D. Campbell, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Chapter x. pp. 179, 
180.) 

Readers of these notes have become familiar with Cottle, Poole, 
and Lamb, and know what we owe to their devotion to Coleridge. 
It is fortunate that when he was away from these friends as well as 
from those at the Lakes — Wordsworth and Southey, — he should 
attract to him that young London barrister and book-lover, Henry 
Crabb Robinson, who knew more literary men in Europe than any 
one of his time. He met Wordsworth at Lamb's in 1808, and 
through him he was taught to esteem Coleridge. He was intro- 
duced to Coleridge at Lamb's in 18 10, and from that day until 
the death of Mrs. Wordsworth in 1859, the Diary and Corre- 
spondence of Robinson becomes one of the richest sources of infor- 
mation in regard to the personal and literary history of these re- 
markable men. 

Lamb wrote of Coleridge at this time : "He has powdered his 
head and looks like Bacchus." 

In 1 8 1 1 he became again attached to the Courier and gave an- 
other series of lectures on Shakespeare and Milton. The fragments 
of these now gathered from Mr. Robinson's diaries and the note- 



books of J. P. Collier constitute one of the most remarkable books 
on English criticism ; from it Shakespearean criticism takes its rise.l 

The estrangement between Coleridge and Wordsworth contin- 
ued ; and although Coleridge visited his children at Ambleside and 
his wife at Greta Hall, he made no effort to see Wordsworth, and he 
never visited the Lakes again. Early in 1 8 12 the estrangement 
from Wordsworth was healed, and he delivered another course of 
lectures on the Drama. In the early fall he brought out his Osorio 
rewritten, under the title Remorse, and through the influence of 
Byron, who had now become a warm friend and patron, it was 
accepted at Drury Lane Theatre. He also gave a third course of 
lectures on Belles Lettres. 

In this year the Wordsworths, who were then living at the Par- 
sonage opposite the church, were in the depths of sorrow at the loss 
of two children, Catherine, aged four, and Thomas, six. Cole- 
ridge wrote most tenderly : "O that it were in my power to be 
with you myself instead of my letter. The Lectures I could give 
up; but the rehearsal of my play commences this week, and 
upon it depends my best hopes of leaving town after Christmas, and 
living among you as long as I live. What comfort ought I not to 
afford, who have given you so much pain ? " 

In January, 181 3, the play was given with success at Drury 
Lane, and while Wordsworth was moving to Rydal Mount, Cole- 
ridge was planning for a course of lectures at Bristol. These were 
concluded in the spring of 18 14. 

He remained until November at Bristol (after the conclusion of 
the lectures), again trying to rid himself of the opium habit, and 
then went to Calne in Wiltshire, in care of a physician. At Brem- 
hill, near by, was his old friend Bowles. At this time his friends, 
especially Sir George and Lady Beaumont, and Wordsworth, were 
devising means by which Hartley might enter Oxford. It was 
probably at this time that this poem was written as an appendix 
or note to 1. 42, Act ii. Sc. ii . in Remorse : — 

' * You are a painter, one of many fancies ! 

You can call up * past deeds and make them live ' 
On the blank canvas." 

1 Lectures and Notes on Shakespeare and Other English Poets^ by 
S. T. Coleridge. 



388 iliote0 [1815 

In a note to the second edition of Remorse, of these lines 
Coleridge says : 

" The following lines I have preserved in this place, not so much 
as explanatory of the picture of the assassination, as (if I may 
say so without disrespect to the Public) to gratify my own feelings, 
the passage being no mere faficy portrait ; but a slight, yet not un- 
faithful, profile of one, who still lives, nobilitate felix, arte clarior 
•vita colendissimus. 

1815-1817. 
glycine's song, from ZAPOLYA, act II. SC. 2. 
First printed in 18 17. 

The year 181 5 finds Coleridge still at Calne, but in deep distress 
because of lack of funds and can raise them only by giving his 
MSS. as security. His MSS. of the Biographia Literaria, and 
the new edition of his poems. Sibylline Lea'ves, are ready for the 
printer. Hartley had been taken to Oxford by Wordsworth, and 
at the end of his Easter term visited his father. At the suggestion 
of Byron he wrote Zapolya (in which he borrowed from Shake- 
speare's Winter s Tale^, from which this and the following song is 
taken. They reveal the fact that he was able * to recapture this 
first fine careless rapture." 

Mr. Stopford Brooke thinks they may have been written earlier 
and introduced into the Drama at this time. 

1815-1817. 
TIME, REAL AND IMAGINARY. 
First printed in Sibylline Lea'ves, 18 17. 

Readers of this characteristic little poem have been misled by 
Coleridge's note, " A Schoolboy Poem." Against taking such 
expressions of Coleridge literally, Mr. J. D. Campbell warns us 
and says : " These lines may embody some schoolboy dream of 
holidays and his Sister Ann j it may even have received some shape 
in boyhood, but not its present shape — that must have been im- 
pressed at a later date — 181 5-18 17, when Sib. Lea'ves was in 
press." 

There is a fine prophecy here of the two main activities of the 
coming century — Science and Poetry. Tennyson's Parnassus 
should be read as expressing a similar truth a century later. In 



this notion of the sister we have an idea which was fundamental 
with Wordsworth, as in We Are Se'ven and Intimations of Immor- 
tality. Mr. Stopford Brooke calls it Coleridge's " Metaphysic of 
fairyland." 

Prof. Hugo Munsterberg, of Harvard University, in a recent 
lecture on Child Psychology, said: " We must be positivists in 
science and psychology, but we must not forget that science and 
psychology are themselves merely tools for the free will of a real 
personality ivhich idealists alone understand, 

i8i7?-i834. 

THE knight's tomb. 
First printed in Poetical Works, 1834. 

The year 18 16 marks the last of the changes in Coleridge's 
troubled life in the matter of environment, for in March he leaves 
Calne for London, taking with him the MS. of Zapolya. He 
consulted an eminent physician. Dr. Adams, in regard to his con- 
dition, and through him gained admission at Dr. Gillman's, High- 
gate Hill. This proved to be the last turn in the tortuous journey 
of his life. In April, 18 16, Dr. Joseph Adams, to whom Cole- 
ridge had made his case known, wrote to Dr. Gillman of High- 
gate asking if it would be possible for him to take Coleridge, saying : 
** He wishes to fix himself in the hands of some medical gentle- 
man who will have courage to refuse him any laudanum. . . . He 
is desirous of retirement and a garden. I should not have proposed 
it but on account of the great importance of the character as a lit- 
erary man." Gillman had seen Coleridge but once. Soon ^after 
Dr. Adams' letter was received Coleridge called, and influenced 
him to accept the proposition. ** Coleridge came," says Gillman, 
*' bringing in his hands the proofsheets of Christabel.^'' 

Hardly adequate recognition has been given to this noble family for 
the haven of rest flirnished this storm-tossed mariner. Everything 
was done to make his life comfortable and happy. An addition 
was built to the house in order that he might have ample room for 
his chests and books. Friends were welcome, and sympathy was 
shown in these autumn days of thought and song. Providence, 
so kind to Coleridge in raising up friends, was never richer in 
gifts than in these last provisions for his vesper song. * ' From his 



390 i!iOte0 [1819 

ninth year he had been a wanderer and a sojourner, finding no city 
to dwell in, and now when he was at his wit's end, tossed in a sea 
of troubles, the waves suddenly stilled, and he felt that he had 
reached his desired haven." 

Mr. Ernest Coleridge says : 

** To the Gillmans he owed the * crown of his cup and garnish 
of his dish,' a welcome which lasted till the day of his death. . . . 
Their patience must have been inexhaustible, their loyalty unim- 
peachable, their love indestructible. Such friendship is rare and 
beautiful, and merits a most honorable remembrance." 

Lamb writes : " Coleridge is absent but four miles, and the 
neighborhood of such a man is as exciting as the presence of fifty 
ordinary persons." Christabel, Kubla Khan, The Pains of Sleep 
were published in pamphlet in June, and provoked bitter contro- 
versy. Coleridge was disturbed because of the article in the 
Edinburgh Re-vieiv, which was written by Hazlitt, for whom he 
had done so much. 

Early in 1 8 1 7 the Biographia Literaria and second Lay Sermon 
were published. (The Blackivood'' s review of the Biographia viz^ 
very bitter. ) He renewed his work on the Courier. Zapolya 
was published, and two thousand copies were immediately sold. 
Wordsworth visited him, and interested himself in the new course 
of lectures on poetical literature which was being planned. In this 
year, too, he first met Dr. J. H. Green, who became one of his 
most devoted disciples and after his death his sole literary executor. 

The date of this poem is uncertain, but it must have been writ- 
ten prior to the publication of I'vanhoe, 1820, for Scott quoted 
11. 9-1 1 from it. He says, '* To borrow lines from a contempo- 
rary poet, who has written but too little." 

Mr. Campbell quotes from Gillman's Life of Coleridge : " The 
lines were composed as an experiment for a metre, and repeated by 
the author to a mutual friend, who repeated them again at a dinner- 
party to Scott on the following day. 

1819-1819. 
FANCY IN NUBIBUS. 
First printed in Blackivood'' s Magazine y November, 1819. 

Early in 1818 the lectures were given in a hall at Flower-de- 
Luce Court, Fetter Lane, and unfortunately Hazlitt was lecturing at 



i82o] jl^ctesf 391 

the same time on Poetry at the Surrey Institution. Through these 
lectures Coleridge made the acquaintance of Thomas Allsop, whose 
sympathy and admiration came to mean much to him at a time when 
some of the older relationships were becoming severely strained. 
With him he conferred in regard to a double course of lectures on 
Shakespeare and Philosophy respectively. When Coleridge sent a 
ticket to Lamb he replied : " We are sorry it never lies in your 
way to come to us, but dear Mahomet we will come to you." He 
was in such financial straits in spite of the funds from the lectures 
that he consented to be a contributor to Blackivood's Magazine^ 
which had been so severe on the Biographia. This sonnet was 
the first of his contributions to that magazine. 

Here we have that brightness of spirit, lightness of touch, and 
melody of voice which were common to him only when at his 
best. It is not thought turned into poetry, but spontaneous poetic 
thought, born of the pure imagination, the rarest and most precious 
of the gifts of the muse. It might have been written by Keats, 
who this very year was on the heights of his poetic mount of vision. 

Cf. Keats : " I stood tiptoe on a little hill." 

Such work as this reveals to us the truth of what Wordsworth 
said of his friend, Prelude, II. 215 et seq. 

' * No officious slave 
Art thou of that false secondary power 
By which we multiply distinctions, then 
Deem that our puny boundaries are things 
That we perceive, and not that we have made. 
To thee, unblinded by these formal arts, 
The unity of all hath been revealed. ' ' 

In the Tauchnitz edition of Coleridge's Poems, F. Freiligrath 
says that the last five lines of this poem belong to Stolberg's An 

das Meer. 

1820?-! 8 36. 

TO NATURE. 

First printed by Allsop (^Letters, etc., 1836), 

In April, 18 19, Coleridge met Keats, who had just finished the 
first draft of Endymion, and Leigh Hunt in Highgate Lane. '* We 



392 jiiote0 [1830 

walked together * for near two miles,' says Keats, 'and in those 
two miles he broached a thousand things." On shaking hands 
at parting Coleridge turned to Hunt and said aside, *' There is 
death in that hand." Cf. Table Talk^ April 14, 1832. This 
was a remarkable prevision not shared by many of Keats' s immedi- 
ate friends. Later Coleridge alluded to the two-forked Parnassus, 
Hampstead and Highgate. 

Early in 1820 Hartley and Derwent visited him, and he writes, 
" Would to Heaven their dear sister were with us, — the cup of 
paternal joy would be full to the brim." He had not seen her since 
181 3. Later he was called to drink a very bitter cup in the 
matter of Hartley's loss of his Fellowship at Oriel because of intem- 
perance. The thought that his son had inherited a weakness from 
him was hard to bear. 

This sonnet reveals a Wordsworthian love of the joy and beauty 
of the universe, and disposition to seek relief in them. The date 
of composition is uncertain, but Mr. J. D. Campbell places it 
here, "?i820." Compare lines 6-10 with Wordsworth's the 
Prelude^ II. 319 et seq.: 

" If this be sorrow," etc. 

Mr. Campbell says : " Along with this poem in Allsop's Letters 
is another, Fareivell to Love. Of To Nature he says : ' The 
second sonnet I have found on a detached piece of paper, without 
note or observation. How it came into my possession I have now 
forgotten, tho' I have some faint impression that I wrote it down 
from dictation.' " 

1823-1828. 
YOUTH AND AGE. 
First printed in the Bijou and The Literary Sowvenir^ 1828. 

In 1 821 he was still *' scribbling for Blackivood'' s Magazine," 
and building castles- in the air in the shape of a monumental 
work on the History of Philosophy in France and England since 
the Restoration. He spent two months at Ramsgate with the 
Gillmans, and met there the Cowden Clarkes. They knew he 
was in town by a remark of a friend who said " I heard an elderly 
gentleman in a public library, who looked like a Dissenting 
Minister, talk as I had never heard man talk. ' ' 



18^3] iI^Otf0 393 

With the new year, 1822, he planned to enlarge his ' school' 
of young men who had come to him to learn philosophy and litera- 
ture. Not the least noted of these men was the Scotch preacher 
Edward Irving. It is of this work of Coleridge of which Carlyle 
speaks in his life of Sterling. 

The picture is exceedingly graphic : * ' Coleridge sat on the brow 
of Highgate Hill, in those years, looking down on London and 
its smoke-tumult, like a sage escaped from the inanity of life's 
battle J attracting towards him the thoughts of innumerable brave 
souls still engaged there. . . . He had, especially among young 
inquiring men, a higher than literary, a kind of prophetic or 
magician character. . . . No talk in his century, or in any 
other, could be more inspiring." 

He announces to Allsop a work on Logic, the MSS. of which, 
Mr. J. D. Campbell tells us, are now in the possession of Mr. C. 
A. Ward, of Chingford Hatch. At Christmas Mrs. Coleridge 
and Sara came to Highgate and remained for two months. They 
then visited their relatives at Ottery St. Mary, where Henry 
Nelson Coleridge, the son of James Coleridge, fell in love with 
his cousin Sara ; this was reciprocated, and all parties were 
pleased with the prospects. For a picture of Sara Coleridge, 
Edith South ey and Dora Wordsworth, see The Triad by Words- 
worth. Coleridge seems to have been the observed of all ob- 
servers with a choice fraternity at this time, for Lamb writes : 
'* I dined in Parnassus with Wordsworth, Coleridge, Rogers, 
Tom Moore. . . . Coleridge was in his finest vein of talk — 
had all the talk." 

Cottle says : " Inveterate talkers, while Mr. Coleridge was on 
the wing, generally suspended their own flight, and felt it almost a 
profanation to interrupt so impressive and mellifluous a speaker. 
. . , This singular, if not happy, peculiarity, occasioned Madame 
de Stael to remark of Mr. C, that 'He is rich in Monologue, 
but poor in Dialogue.' " (^Reminiscences). 

The most important event in 1823 is the creation of the first 
draft of this exquisite poem, one of the finest flowers in his poetic 
garden. In it the poet reveals his consciousness that 

" It is not now as it hath been of yore." 



394 il^otesi [1824 

1824-1834. 

love's first hope. 

First printed among Miscellaneous Poems in Poetical Works, 1334, 

with the title First Adnient of Lo've. 

Two years had passed since the advent of the Scotch preacher 
Edward Irving, and now through this devoted disciple the Scotch 
Thersites, Thomas Carlyle, was conducted to the ' Dodona oracle ' 
at Highgate. Carlyle was fresh from his study of Goethe, and in 
an ultra critical, even dyspeptic mood, so, instead of sympathy with- 
Coleridge, we get only sneers at his idealism and disgust at his 
physical weakness. In such a mood we are not surprised that he 
found nothing to venerate in him. He says, " Several times 
Montagu, on Coleridge's ' Thursday Evenings,' carried Irving and 
me out, and returned blessing Heaven (I not) for what he had re- 
ceived. ... I reckon him a man of great and useless genius, a 
strange, not at all a great man." 

Carlyle's dyspepsia colors life differently from Coleridge's opium. 
He was not less callous to the sweetness of Lamb, for he says : 
*' There was much talk and loud of Charles Lamb, at his own 
house I saw him once j once I gradually felt to have been enough 
for me." 

Coleridge was now putting the final touches upon the Aids to 
Refection when Irving dedicated to him one of his sermons. Lamb 
wrote of Irving : " He is a humble disciple at the foot of Gama- 
liel S. T. C." 

Coleridge assigned an earlier date for this poem, saying it was a 
relic of his schoolboy muse, but Mr. Campbell settles beyond a 
doubt that it was written in 1824. He says that a memorandum 
in Coleridge's handwriting (1824) on the fourth and fifth lines is 
as follows : "A pretty unintended couplet in the prose of Sidney's 
Arcadia.^^ 

The passage in the Arcadia is as follows : " Her breath is more 
sweet than a gentle southwest wind, which comes creeping over 
flowery fields and shadowed waters in the heat of summer." 

Cf. Shakespeare, Tivelfth Night, Act i. Sc. i. 

" O, it came o'er my ear like the sweet south, 
That breathes upon a bank of violets, 
Stealing and giving odour." 



is^s] il^otesf 395 

1825?-! 8 34. 

ALICE DU CLOS. 
First printed in Edition of 1834. 

Early in 1825 the Aids to Reflection was published. While the 
reviewers were cold toward the work the praise accorded it by 
the younger men of rising power in education and the Church 
must have brought consolation to Coleridge. In avoiding the 
materialism of the High Church and the rationalism of the ex- 
treme Unitarian, it did for religion what the Ancient Mariner 
did for poetry. It opened up the fallow region of human ex- 
perience where most that life doth value must be grown. Ten- 
nyson's Tivo Voices and In Memoriam, Browning's Death in the 
Desert and Saul are the direct results of its influence in poetry, 
while the splendid teaching of such men as Robertson, Maurice, 
Kingsley, Arnold, Tulloch, Martineau, Channing, Drummond, 
and Phillips Brooks in the Church is full of inspiration from 
it. This teaching sounds in trumpet tones the call : '* Christianity 
is neither a superstition nor learned speculation, but a life." 

** 'T is life whereof our nerves are scant. 
More life and fuller that we want." 

Tennyson, Tivo Voices. 
"There is an inner centre in us all 

Where truth abides in fulness 5 and around, 
Wall upon wall, the gross flesh hems it in. 
This perfect clear perception — which is truth j 

and ' to knoiu ' 
Rather consists in opening out a way 
Whence the imprisoned splendour may escape, 
Than in effecting entry for a light 
Supposed to be without." 

Browning, Paracelsus. 
" O human soul, as long as thou canst so 
Set up a mark of everlasting light, 
Above the howling senses' ebb and flow 

To cheer thee, and to right thee if thou roam — 
Not with lost toil thou laborest through the night ! 

Thou mak'st the heaven thou hop'st indeed thy home." 

Arnold, East London. 



396 il^Oteflf ' [1826 

While it is not certain at what time this poem was written, it 
has all the characteristics of Coleridge's best work, every line of 
which breathes the spirit of the new Romance. 

1826-1828. 
DUTY SURVIVING SELF LOVE. 
First printed in Poetical Works, 1828, 

The only other event of 1825 which interests us was his ap- 
pointment to the Royal Society of Literature, which brought 
with it an annuity of one hundred guineas from the king's privy 
purse. For this he was charged by Hazlitt, in Spirit of the Age, 
with having * turned to the unclean side ' 5 to which he replied in the 
best of humour — in a poem called A Character. 

In 1826 he was much with the Lambs, and continued his now 
famous Thursday Evening symposia. It would seem that the joy 
now coming to him from the ' divine philosophy ' which to so 
many he had made as * musical as is Apollo's lute ' found expres- 
sion in this poem. 

1827-1828. 

WORK WITHOUT HOPE. 

First printed in the Bijou, 1828, 

Mr. J. Dykes Campbell thinks that there had been some 
estrangement between the poet and his nephew, Henry Nelson 
Coleridge, as there is an interruption of Table Talk (edited by 
H. N. C. ) between 1824 and 1827. This was, however, re- 
moved by the visit of Sara to Highgate in this year, 1827. At 
this time, too, attempts were being made to secure for him a 
sinecure office, but they failed. He had made a warm place for 
himself in the hearts of his hosts, for when Sara Coleridge, after 
her marriage, suggested that her father should come and live 
with her, Mr. and Mrs. Gillman said that it would be impos- 
sible for them to let him go 5 wherever he went, they would have 
to go too 5 they could not be separated from him. 

This poem as first printed v.'as followed by the words, " Lines 
composed on a day in February," In 1828 they were changed to 
*' Lilies composed en the 21st February, 1827." 



1828] ^Ote0 397 

Like many another of his later poems this has the subdued color 
of autumn, as parts of Wordsworth's Intimations of Immortality. 
While the evening of his poetic career was lighted up with glints of 
extraordinary splendor and beauty, the contrast to what he had 
seen was so strong that he could not say with Wordsworth — on a 
similar occasion — 

'* Thence welcome, above all, the Guest 
Whose smiles, diffused o'er land and sea, 
Seem to recall the Deity 
Of youth into the breast." 

1828-1865. 
AND OFT I SAW HIM STRAY. 

First published in Beaten Paths, 1865. 

In the fall of 1827 Coleridge voiced his delight at the engage- 
ment of Derwent to Miss Mary Pridham, in a little poem full of 
hope, yet having one line of intense pathos : 

" Hope making a new start. 
Since I have heard with most believing heart, 
That all this shaping heart has yearned to see, 
My Derwent hath found realized in thee." 

Mr. Yarnell says that on one occasion when Derwent Coleridge 
entertained some American friends, "he placed his hands on 
either side of the head of his daughter Christabel, then about eight 
years old, and said, * This is the best representative of S. T. C. 
I can show you. ' ' ' — TVordsiuorth and the Coleridges. 

Early in 1828 Coleridge met Scott at a dinner party when, 
according to Lockhart, he talked on the origin of the Iliad, antici- 
pating the doctrine of the German — Wolf — that it was a collec- 
tion of poems by different authors. In June he accompanied 
Wordsworth and his daughter Dora on a visit to the Rhine. A 
record of a portion of this tour is to be found in Beaten Paths, by 
T. Colly Grattan, who then lived in Brussels. Mr. Grattan acted 
as guide to Waterloo and other places. He describes a walk by 
night with Coleridge about Namur : "He took me by the arm, 
and in his low, recitative way he rehearsed two or three times, 



398 jl^otes! [»8^8 

and finally recited, some lines which he said I had recalled to his 
mind, and which formed part of something never published. He 
repeated the lines at my request, and as well as I could catch the 
broken sentences, I wrote them down immediately afterwards with 
my pencil." Such is the history of this little fragment (Camp- 
bell). Are these lines a description of his friend Wordsworth ? 
They bear a striking resemblance to lines 55-58 of Wordsworth's 
Stanzas ivritten in my Pocket-copy of Thomson s Castle of Indolence^ 
1802 : 

* Expedients, too, of simplest sort he tried ; 
Long blades of grass plucked round him as he lay, 
Made, to his ear attentively applied, 
A pipe on which the wind would deftly play." 

1828-1829. 
THE GARDEN OF BOCCACCIO. 

First printed in the Keepsake, 1829, where it accompanied a draw- 
ing by Stothard. 

The band of disciples to be met on Coleridge's * Thursdays ' 
was now increased by that interesting young enthusiast, John Ster- 
ling, just from Cambridge. In association with his tutor, J. C. 
Hare, and his friend, F. D. Maurice, he had become devoted to 
the philosophy of the B'lographia and the Aids to Reflection, so 
it was but natural that he should drift to the Sage of Highgate. 
Cf. Essays and Tales, by John Sterling, with a memoir by J. C. 
Hare, and Life of John Sterling, by T. Carlyle. 

It was in this year that his genius again burst forth in wild luxu- 
riance at the remembrance of love and beauty which had been his 
in youth. On seeing Stothard's engraving of the Garden of Boc- 
caccio he loses himself in recreating a joyous idyl of the past. 

? — 1830. 

LOVE, HOPE AND PATIENCE IN EDUCATION. 

First printed in the Keepsake for 1830. 

One of the most interesting events in this year was the recognition 
which Coleridge received at the hands of Carlyle. In his essay on 



1829] il^otetf 399 

Novalis in the Foreign Re'vieiv Carlyle said of Coleridge's works : 
' ' Among readers they have still but an unseen circulation ; like 
living brooks, hidden for the present under mountains of froth and 
theatrical snow-paper, and which only at a distant day, when these 
mountains shall have decomposed themselves into gas and earthly 
residuum, may roll forth in their true limpid shape to gladden the 
general eye with what beauty and everlasting freshness does reside 
in them." 

Sir Humphry Davy, whom Coleridge considered almost as 
great a poet as naturalist, passed away, and we find allusions in 
Lamb's letters at this time which show that Coleridge himself was 
in failing health. 

In September his daughter Sara was married to her cousin, 
Henry Nelson Coleridge, in the ancient church of St. Kentigern, 
Crosthwaite, Keswick. They settled at Hampstead, and Table 
Talk was continued early the following year. 

It is not unnatural at a time when he was living so much in the 
past, when sere leaves were on the bough or falling, that he should 
touch upon the nature and training of children. In this exqui- 
site little poem there is food for thought for all who would sun 
themselves in the light of children's happy faces. 

*'Is it not strange," he asks in Table Talk, July lo, 1834, 
just before his death, **that very recently bygone images and 
scenes of early life have stolen into my mind like breezes blown 
from the spice-islands of Youth and Hope — these two realities of 
the phantom world ! " 

•The original title of the poem was The Poet' s Ansiver to a 
Lady % ^estion respecting the Accomplishments most desirable in an 
Instructress of Children. 

1829-1829. 
LINES WRITTEN IN COMMONPLACE BOOK OF MISS 
BARLOW. 
First printed in the Neiv York Mirror ^ Dec. 19, 1 829. 

This little poem is self-explanatory. It is full of the highest 
and noblest sentiments which need to be emphasized in these early 
years of the new century. The history of the poem is interesting. 
Mr. Charles Dudley Warner procured for Mr. Campbell a copy 



400 i^Otesf [1830 

from the venerable lady to whom it was addressed, Mrs. Collins, of 
Baltimore, and he had it printed in the Athenaeum^ May 3, 1884. 
Hence it appeared in his edition of the poet's works, 1893. 

In Table Talk, April, 1833, he says : ** The possible destiny of 
the United States of America — as a nation of a hundred millions 
of freemen — stretching from the Atlantic to the Pacific, living 
under the laws of Alfred, and speaking the language of Shake- 
speare and Milton, is an august conception. Why should we not 
wish to see it realized ? America would then be England viewed 
through a solar microscope ; Great Britain in a state of glorious 
magnification. ' ' 

1830?-! 834? 

PHANTOM OR FACT. 

First printed in edition of 1834. 

During this year Coleridge published a second edition of his 
Constitution of Church and State, and in a letter sent to his old 
friend Poole he speaks of his extrication ' from the Body of this 
Death,' and the illness which brought him to the ' brink of the 
grave.' Mrs. Sandford says, '' Across the letter just below the 
date is written: * Chap. v. and from p. 143 to p. 183 will, I 
flatter myself, interest you. — S. T. C " 

This reference is to that fine passage which expresses Coleridge's 
appreciation of his friend, and also contains an exquisite portrait of 
the noble man. Mrs. Sandford concludes her interesting Thomas 
Poole and his Friends as follows : 

**And who so fit to pen Tom Poole's epitaph as the friend 
whom he loved above all others, and whose friendship was the chief 
treasure, as it was the most remarkable experience of his life." 

Under such conditions of reflection was this poem evidently 
written. 

This picture of the poet's spiritual youth returning from heaven, 
and at the same time not recognizing its former dwelling-place, is 
full of the most piteous pathos yet imagined ; it is a bit of darkness 
from the depths of his soul. It is full of the mystery of Hamlet's 
riddling speeches. 

It was in 1830 that a new claimant for the companionship of 
the Muse came forward. Alfred Tennyson published his first vol- 
ume. Poems, chiefly Lyrical. While Leigh Hunt and Arthur 



1833] iliote0 401 

Hallam praised these poems highly, Coleridge wrote, Table Talk, 
April 24, 1833 : "I think there are some things of a good deal 
of beauty in what I have seen 5 the misfortune is that he began to 
write verses without very well understanding what metre is." 

One can imagine that the creator of such marvellous melodies as 
The Ancient Mariner, Kubla Khan, and Christabel would not let 
a new candidate for the cathedral choir pass without a rigid test. 
With regard to this judgment by the elder poet, it is interesting to 
read what Tennyson said in 1890 : *' From what I have heard he 
may have read Glen-river, in ' above the loud Glenriver,' and 
tendriltivine in the line, * Mantled with flowing tendriltwine ' 
dactylically ; because I had an absurd antipathy to hyphens, and 
put two words together as one word. If that was the case, he 
might well have wished that I had more sense of metre." 

Wordsworth, when visiting Cambridge in 1830, wrote: "We 
have a respectable show of blossom in poetry — two brothers of the 
name of Tennyson, one in particular not a little promising." 

Arthur Hallam, after visiting Coleridge at Highgate, in this year 
1830, wrote : 

" Methought I saw a face whose every line 
Wore the pale cast of thought, a good old man 
Most eloquent, who spoke of things divine. 
Around him youths were gathered, who did scan 
Kis countenance so grand, and drank 
The sweet sad tears of wisdom." 

1833-1834. 
love's apparition ,and evanishment. 

First printed in Friendship* s Offering, 1834, without the Envoy. 

This was added in 1852. 

At the death of George IV. the honorarium which Coleridge 
had received as one of the Royal Associates ceased, but through 
the efforts of friends a sum of ;^300 was granted from the Trea- 
sury. There never had been any danger of his suffering want, as 
those who loved him stood ready to assist him, and there is no 
more interesting or suggestive chapter in the history of English lit- 
erature than that which reveals how princely merchants did honor 
to themselves while ministering to the needs of Coleridge. 



402 jiiotesf [1833 

Much of the time after 1830 he was confined to the sick- 
chamber. Wordsworth left his retirement at Rydal in November, 

1830, and rode Dora's pony to Cambridge, in order that she might 
have it to ride while visiting her uncle, the Master of Trinity. On 
his way home he visited London to see Coleridge, and in January, 

1 83 1, he writes of him to Sir William Hamilton: "It grieves 
me to say that his constitution seems breaking up. . . . His 
mind has lost none of its vigor." Again, alluding to the fact that 
Sir William is not likely now to see Coleridge, he says : ** Much 
do I regret this, for you may pass your life without meeting a man 
of such commanding faculties." 

In 1832 Lamb writes : "I will set out on Wednesday morning 
to take you by the hand. . . . Mary's most kind love. . . . 
Here she is crying for mere love over your letter. I wrung out 
less, but not sincerer showers." 

There was visiting Henry Crabb Robinson at this time a young 
Englishman of great promise, Walter Savage Landor. He had 
not been in England for eighteen years, and Robinson naturally 
took him to see his friends. Lamb, Flaxman, Hare, Coleridge, and 
others. Had Coleridge been in health one could easily imagine the 
high discourse which would have passed between the two Plato- 
nists. As it was, Landor was disappointed because Coleridge talked 
only of himself. 

In 1833 ^^ recovered sufficiently to visit Cambridge for the 
meeting of the British Association. Of these days he wrote : "I 
have not passed, of late years at least, three days of such great 
enjoyment and healthful excitement of mind and body." He stayed 
with Thirlwail at Trinity, of whom, with Faraday, he spoke most 
admiringly. 

In the autobiography of Harriet Martineau we find a descrip- 
tion of the Coleridge of these days : *' He looked very old with 
his rounded shoulders and drooping head. . . . His eyes were as 
wonderful as they were ever represented to be, light grey, ex- 
tremely prominent, and actually glittering. ... I am glad to 
have seen his weird face and heard his dreamy voice ; and my 
notion of possession, prophecy — of involuntary speech from invol- 
untary brain action, has been clearer since." 

It was under such conditions, when physical weakness seemed 
momentarily to overcome him, that this poem, so full of the 



i833] il^otesf 403 

thought of what had been his, was written. This sentiment of 
* L' Envoy ' is found in Table Talk, June of this year : where, speak- 
ing of Faraday, he says in true Wordsworthian tone : "To carry on 
the feelings of childhood into the powers of manhood 5 to combine 
the child's sense of wonder and novelty with the appearances which 
every day for perhaps forty years had rendered familiar 5 this char- 
acterizes the mind that feels the riddle of the world, and may help 
to unravel it." ■>■ 

The Efi-voy was composed in 1824, as Coleridge says, 'with- 
out taking pen off paper, and was quoted in a letter to Allsop, 
April 27, 1824, as follows, — 

'< Idly we supplicate the Powers above: 
There is no resurrection for a Love 
That unperturb'd, unshadow'd, wanes away, 
In the chill'd heart by inward self-decay. 
Poor mimic of the Past ! the love is o'er 
That must resolve to do what did itself of yore." 

1833-1834. 
EPITAPH. 

First printed in Poetical Works, 1834. 

In August of this year (1833) Emerson had just reached London 
from the Continent, inspired with the desire "to see the faces of 
three or four writers," — Coleridge, Wordsworth, Landor, Do 
Quincey, and Carlyle. He sought Coleridge at Highgate. Cole- 
ridge's conversation was mostly on Allston and Channing, ex- 
ceedingly appreciative of the former but somewhat stormy toward 
the latter. And as if to impress Emerson with the true creed he 
recited the sonnet. My Baptismal Birthday, just written, the last 
eight lines of which are interesting as revealing his calm and child- 
like faith : 

" The heir of heaven, henceforth I fear not death ; 
In Christ I live ! in Christ I draw the breath 
Of the true life ! Let then Earth, Sea and Sky 
Make war against me ! On my front I show 
Their mighty Master's seal. In vain they try 
To end my life, that can but end its woe. — 



404 il5ote0 [1833 

Is that a deathbed where a Christian lies ? — 
Yes ! but not his — 't is Death itself there dies." 

This was prophetic of the death he was to die, and he was loyal 
to the creed. In the winter he wrote this Epitaph, in which the 
heart of a little child still beats in the breast of the Sage. He had 
fought a good fight, for it was literally death in life to battle with 
the foul fiend Opium; he had laid the monster low at his feet, 
and thereafter lived in the ampler ether and diviner air of intellec- 
tual and moral excellence. This is the lesson from Coleridge's 
life that should be made prominent : he raised himself above him- 
self and became a peer in God's realm. 

This poem should be compared with that of Landor written 
under similar conditions. 

" I strove with none, for none was worth my strife : 
Nature I loved, and next to nature. Art ; 
I warmed both hands before the fire of life ; 
It sinks, and I am ready to depart. ' ' 

Coleridge died on the morning of July 2.5, 1834, and was buried in 
Highgate Churchyard, where now stands the simple memorial 
bearing this inscription. 

Washington Allston on his deathbed said : " Coleridge was the 
greatest man I ever knew, and more sinned against than sinning." 

Scott had died in 1832, and Lamb, never recovering from the 
shock at the loss of Coleridge, "that great and dear spirit," died 
in December of the same year; and before the close of 1835, 
Crabbe, Hogg, and Mrs. Hemans had passed on. Wordsworth 
was so deeply moved by the loss of so many of his associates that 
he gave voice to his grief in the poems On the Death of Charles 
Lamb and Elegy on the Death of. James Hogg. In the latter he 
speaks of his dearest friends thus : 

" The Mighty Minstrel breathes no longer, 
'Mid mouldering ruins low he lies ; 
And death upon the braes of Yarrow 
Has closed the Shepherd-poet's eyes : 

Nor has the rolling year twice measured, 
From sign to sign, its steadfast course, 



1833] #ote0 405 

Since every mortal power of Coleridge 
Was frozen at its marvellous source ; 

The rapt One, of the godlike forehead, 
The heaven-eyed creature sleeps in earth : 
And Lamb, the frolic and the gentle, 
Has vanished from his lonely hearth. 

Like clouds that rake the mountain-summits. 
Or waves that own no curbing hand. 
How fast has brother followed brother, 
From sunshine to the sunless land ! 

Yet I, whose lids from infant slumber 
Were earlier raised, remain to hear 
A timid voice, that asks in whispers, 
' Who next will drop and disappear ? ' " 

The following from Coleridge's Preface to the second edition of 
his poems reveals what was fundamental with him through life. 

*' I expect neither profit nor general fame by my writings ; and 
I consider myself as having been amply repayed without either. 
Poetry has been to me its own * exceeding great reward ' : it has 
multiplied and refined my enjoyments ; it has endeared solitude j 
and it has given me the habit of wishing to discover the Good and 
the Beautiful in all that meets and surrounds me." 

Of the three remarkable children of Coleridge only a word can 
be said here, but their life work should not be neglected by the 
student of these poems. 

Of Hartley's wonderful gifts of intellect in his Oxford period 
Alexander Dyce says : " He knew that he was expected to talk, 
and talking was his delight. Leaning his head on one shoulder, 
turning up his dark bright eyes, and swinging backward and forward 
on his chair, he would hold forth by the hour (for no one wished 
to interrupt him) on whatever subject might have been started, — 
either of literature, politics or religion, — with an originality of 
thought, a force of illustration, and a facility and beauty of expres- 
sion which I question if any man then living, except his father, 
could have surpassed." 



4o6 JliOtrfif [1833 

Mr. Aubrey de Vere writes of Sara Coleridge as follows : "Of 
her some one has said, Her father had looked down into her eyes, 
and left in them the light of his own j when Sir Henry Taylor 
saw her first, as she entered Southey's study at Keswick, she 
seemed to him, as he told me, a form of compacted light, not of 
flesh and blood, so radiant was her hair, so slender her form, so 
buoyant her step and heaven-like her eyes." 

Of Derwent Coleridge as Principal of St. Mark's College, 
Chelsea, Mr. Ellis Yarnell says : *' Derwent Coleridge had some- 
thing of his father's power of continuous and most impressive dis- 
course on questions of high import. I listened again and again to 
deliverances which were revelations to me. I would have fain 
made record at once of what seemed to me expressions of subtle 
and ingenious thought. Alas ! the effort was beyond me." 



^nhtx to f ir^t %mt$ 

A blessed lot hath he, who having passed, 71. 

A green and silent spot, amid the hills, 175. 

A lovely form there sate beside my bed, 286. 

A sunny shaft did I behold, 263. 

All look and likeness caught from earth, 243. 

All Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair, 278. 

All thoughts, all passions, all delights, 198. 

And oft I saw him stray, 279. 

As late I journey'd o'er the extensive plain, 5. 

As late on Skiddaw's mount I lay supine, 210. 

As when far off the warbled strains are heard, 40. 

At midnight by the stream I roved, 35. 

Beneath the blaze of a tropical sun, 247. 
Beneath this thorn when I was young, 76. 
Beneath yon birch with silver bark, 202. 

Charles ! my slow heart was only sad, when first, 61. 
Child of my muse ! in Barbour's gentle hand, 286. 
Come hither, gently rowing, 193. 

Dear Native Brook ! wild Streamlet of the West ! 27. 

Do you ask what the birds say ? The Sparrow, the Dove, 240. 

Encinctured with' a twine of leaves, 166. 
Ere on my bed my limbs I lay, 241 . 

Farewell parental scenes ! a sad farewell ! 13. 
Fear thou no more, thou timid Flower ! 213, 
Friend of the wise ! and Teacher of the Good ! 251. 

Hast thou a charm to stay the morning-star, 232, 



4o8 ^nm to ifirsft ilmt& 

Heard' St thou yon universal cry, 3. 

How warm this woodland wild recess ! 258. 

I ask'd my fair one happy day, 19Z. 

I know it is dark ; and though I have lain, 236, 

I mix in life and labour to seem free, 59. 

I stood on Brocken's sovran height, and saw, 194. 

If I had but two little wings, 196. 

If thou wert here, these tears were tears of light ! 197. 

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan, 106. 

It is an ancient Mariner, 109. 

It may indeed be phantasy when I, 266. 

Like a lone Arab, old and blind, 288. 

Lo ! through the dusky silence of the groves, 19. 

Low was our pretty Cot; our tallest rose, 55. 

Maid of my Love, sweet Genevieve ! i. 
Mild Splendour of the various-vested Night ! i . 
Much on my early youth I love to dwell, 20. 
My eyes make pictures, when they are shut, 256. 
My pensive Sara ! thy soft cheek reclined, 52. 

Never, believe me, 191. 

No cloud, no relique of the sunken day, 185. 

Now prompts the Muse poetic lays, 6. 

O fair is Love's first hope to gentle mind ! 269. 

O give me, from this heartless scene released, 62. 

O ! it is pleasant, with a heart at ease, 265. 

O thou wild Fancy, check thy wing ! No more, 30. 

O what a wonder seems the fear of death, 43. 

O'er wayward childhood would' st thou hold firm rule, 284. 

Of late, in one of those most weary hours, 280. 

On stern Blencartha's perilous height, 249. 

On the wide level of a mountain's head, 264. 

On wide or narrow scale shall Man, 15, 

Once more, sweet Stream ! with slow foot wandering near, 28. 



3|nDer to iftot Mnt& 409 

Resembles life what once was deem'd of light, 244. 

Since all that beat about in Nature's range, 244. 
Sister of love-lorn Poets, Philomel ! 50. 
Sisters ! sisters ! who sent you here ? 103. 
Spirit who sweepest the wild Harp of Time ! 64. 
Stop, Christian passer-by ! — Stop, child of God, 289. 
Such was the noble Spaniard's own relation, 261. 
Sweet flower ! that peeping from thy russet stem, 58. 

Tell me, on what holy ground, 39. 

The cloud doth gather, the green wood roar, 208. 

The Frost performs its secret ministry, 172. 

The Sun is not yet risen, 269. 

The tear which mourn' d a brother's fate scarce ary, 10. 

The tedded hay, the first fruits of the soil, 208. 

This be the meed, that thy song creates a thousand-fold echo ! 250. 

This sycamore, oft musical with bees, 239. 

Tho' no bold flights to thee belong, 2. 

Thou bleedest, my poor Heart ! and thy distress, 39. 

Through weeds and thorns, and matted underwood, 224. 

Thus far my scanty brain hath built the rhyme, 41. 

Thy smiles I note, sweet early flower, 60. 

'T is the middle of night by the castle clock, 139. 

'T is true, Idoloclastes Satyrane ! 260. 

Tranquillity! thou better name, 215. 

Unchanged within, to see all changed without, 277. 

Underneath a huge oak tree, 1 1 . 

Ungrateful he, who pluck' d thee from thy stalk, 38, 

Up, up ! ye dames, and lasses gay ! 263. 

Upon the mountain's edge with light touch resting, 243. 

Verse, a breeze mid blossoms straying, 267. 

Well ! If the Bard was weather-wise, who made, 217. 
Well, they are gone, and here must I remain, 99. 
When thou to my true-love com'st, 190. 
Where graced with many a classic spoil, 14. 



410 3|nUe)t: to jFtot llines; 

Where is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn ? 265. 
While my young cheek retains its healthful hues, 75. 
Whom the untaught Shepherds call, 23. 
With many a pause and oft reverted eye, 5 1 . 

Ye Clouds! that far above me float and pause, 167. 



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